THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


^•i      r  -•  .  wv'  ' 

--.      ~J 
'     . ^  :      .^,  ^*  4 


/ '  *  •••  r^  \ 

dH      ^      \ 


VV-,    >  ^M-VV^f  '    '  1  * 

A^f*v>f;*   3  r^r":; 


NX/Us^O*— *-*-A 


THE  ROMANCE  OF 
THE  COMMONPLACE 


Jjurgcss 


Now  things  there  are  that,  upon  him  who  sees, 
A  strong  vocation  lay ;  and  strains  there  are 
'That  whoso  hears  shall  hear  for  evermore. 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 


Cl&er  ana  jttorgan 


jfranct^co 


Copyright,    1902 
by  GELETT  BURGESS 

Entered  at  Stationer's  Hall 
London 


AYLOH    COMPANY,     SAN     FRANCISCO 


75 


Co 


48 

ENGLISH 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 
THE      COMMONPLACE 

Contents 


Introduction          .  .  .          .          .          .          .         i 

April  Essays     .         ...         ...         .         .         .  7 

Getting  Acquainted        .        V        .         *         .         .         .  13 

Dining  Out       .         .         .         .         .         .         .          .          .  17 

The  Uncharted  Sea       .         .         .  .         .         .         .21 

The  Art  of  Playing  .......  25 

The  Use  of  Fools         .         .         .         .        '.         .         .  3 1 

Absolute  Age  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  35 

The  Manual  Blessing    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         -39 

The  Deserted  Island          .......  43 

The  Sense  of  Humour          *  '       .         .         .         .         .         .48 

The  Game  of  Correspondence  .          .  •       .          .          .          .  52 

The  Caste  of  the  Articulate  .         .         .         .         .         .         .56 

The  Tyranny  of  the  Lares         ......  60 

Costume  and  Custom    ........       64 

Old  Friends  and  New        .         .         .         .         .         .         .  68 

A  Defense  of  Slang       ........       72 

The  Charms  of  Imperfection     ......  77 

"The  Play's  the  Thing" 81 

Living  Alone    .........  86 

Cartomania  .........       90 

The  Science  of  Flattery     .......  94 

Romance  en  Route         ........       99 

At  the  Edge  of  the  World 102 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


The  Diary  Habit 

The  Perfect  Go-between    . 

Growing  Up 

A  Pauper's  Monologue     . 

A  Young  Man's  Fancy 

Where  is  Bohemia? 

The  Bachelor's  Advantage     . 

The  Confessions  of  an  Ignoramus 

A  Music-Box  Recital     . 

A  Plea  for  the  Precious 

Sub  Rosa 


107 
in 

JI5 
119 

123 
128 

'33 
136 
140 
144 
149 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


fntrotjuctton 


TO  let  this    book   go   from  my  hands  without  some  one 
more  personal  note  than  the  didactic  paragraphs  of  these 
essays  contained,  has  been,  I  must  confess,  a  temptation 
too  strong  for  me  to   resist.     The  observing  reader  will 
note  that  I  have  so  re-written  my  theses  that  none  of  them  begins 
with   an  "  I  "  in   big   type,  and    though    this    preliminary   chapter 
conforms  to  the  rule  also,  it  is  for  typographic  rather  than  for  any 
more  modest  reasons.     Frankly,  this  page  is  by  way  of  a  flourish 
to  my  signature,  and  is  the  very  impertinence  of  vanity. 

But  this  little  course  of  philosophy  lays  my  character  and  tem- 
perament, not  to  speak  of  my  intellect,  so  bare  that,  finished  and 
summed  up  for  the  printer,  I  am  all  of  a  shiver  with  shame.  My 
nonsense  gave,  I  conceit  myself,  no  clue  by  which  my  real  self  might 
be  discovered.  My  fiction  I  have  been  held  somewhat  responsible 
for,  but  escape  for  the  story-teller  is  always  easy.  Even  in  poetry  a 
man  may  so  cloak  himself  in  metaphor  that  he  may  hope  to  be  well 
enough  disguised.  But  the  essay  is  the  most  compromising  form  of 
literature  possible,  and  even  such  filmy  confidences  and  trivial  gaieties 
as  these  write  me  down  for  what  I  am.  Were  they  even  critical  in 
character,  I  would  have  that  best  of  excuses,  a  difference  of  taste,  but 
here  I  have  had  the  audacity  to  attempt  a  discussion  of  life  itself, 
upon  which  every  reader  will  believe  himself  to  be  a  competent  critic. 
By  a  queer  sequence  of  circumstances,  the  essays,  begun  in  the 
Larkt  were  continued  in  the  ghteen,  and,  if  you  have  read  these 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


two  papers,  you  will  know  that  one  magazine  is  as 

remote  in  character  from  the  other  as  San  Francisco 

is  from  London.     But  each  has  happened  to  fare  far 

afield  in  search  of  readers,  and  between  them  I  may 

have  converted  some  few  to  my  optimistic  view  of 

every-day  incident.     To  educate  the  British   Matron   and  Young 

Person  was,  perhaps,  no  more  difficult  an  undertaking  than  to  open 

the  eyes  of  the  California  Native  Son.     The  fogs  that  fall  over  the 

Thames  are  not  very  different  to  the  mists  that  drive  in  through  the 

Golden  Gate,  after  all ! 

Still,  I  would  not  have  you  think  that  these  lessons  were 
written  with  my  tongue  in  my  cheek.  I  have  made  believe  so 
long  that  now  I  am  quite  sincere  in  my  conviction  that  we  can 
see  pretty  much  whatever  we  look  for ;  which  should  prove  the 
desirability  of  searching  for  amusement  and  profit  rather  than  for 
boredom  and  disillusion. 

We  are  in  the  day  of  homespun  philosophy  and  hand-made 
dogma.  A  kind  of  mental  atavism  has  made  science  preposterous ; 
modern  astrologers  and  palmists  put  old  wine  into  new  bottles,  and 
the  discussion  of  Psychomachy  bids  fair  to  revolutionize  the  Eternal 
Feminine.  And  so  I,  too,  strike  my  attitude  and  apostrophize  the 
Universe.  As  being,  in  part,  a  wholesome  reaction  from  the  prevail- 
ing cult,  I  might  call  my  doctrine  Pagan  Science,  for  the  type  of  my 
proselyte  is  the  Bornese  war  chief  peripatetic  on  Broadway  —  the 
amused  wonderer.  But  I  shall  not  begin  all  my  nouns  with  capitals, 
for  it  is  my  aim  to  write  of  romance  with  a  small  "r."  Also  my 
philosophy  must  not  be  thought  a  mere  laissez  fatre;  it  is  an  active, 
not  a  passive  creed.  We  are  here  not  to  be  entertained,  but  to 
entertain  ourselves. 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


Jntto* 

auction 


I  might  have  called  this  book  A  Guide  through 
Middle  Age,  for  it  is  then  that  one  needs  enthusiasm 
the  most.  We  stagger  gaily  through  Youth,  and  by 
the  time  Old  Age  has  come  we  have  usually  found  a 
practicable  working  philosophy,  but  at  forty  one  is 
likely  to  have  a  bitter  hour  at  times,  especially  if  one  is  still  single. 
Or,  so  they  tell  me ;  I  shall  never  confess  to  that  status,  and  shall 
leap  boldly  into  a  white  beard.  A  kindly  euphemism  calls  this 
horrid,  half-way  stage  one's  Prime.  I  have  here  endeavoured  to 
justify  the  usage,  though  I  am  opposed  by  a  thousand  poets. 

If  some   of  these   essays   seem   but  vaguely  correlated  to  my 

major  theme,  you  must  think  of  them  as  being  mere  illustrations  or 

practical  solutions    of    the  commonplace,  solved  by  means  of  the 

theory  I  have  developed  and  iterated.     It  was  hard,  indeed,  to  know 

when  to  stop,  but,  ragged  as  are  my  hints,  I  hope  that  in  all 

essentials  I  have  covered  the  ground  and  formulated 

the  main  rules  of  the  Game  of  Living.    One 

does  not  even  have  to  be  an  expert 

to    be    able    to    do    that! 


Romance  of 
Commonplace 


THE      ROMANCE        OF 
THE      COMMONPLACE 


THEY  were  begun  in  the  April  of  my  life,  and  though  it 
is  now  well  into  mid-June,  some  of  the  glamour  of  the 
Spring  yet  inspires  me,  and  I  am  still  a-wondering.     I 
have  tried  every  charm  to  preserve  my  youth,  and  a  drop 
of  wine  and  a  girl  or  two  into  the  bargain,  but  the  game  is  near 
played  out. 

But  what  boots  marbles  and  tops  when  one  is  initiated  into  the 
mysteries  of  billiards  and  chess?  It  has  taken  me  all  these  years  to 
find  that  there  is  sport  for  every  season,  and  the  rules  vary.  To 
make  a  bold  play  at  life,  then,  without  cheating  (which  is  due  only 
to  a  false  conception  of  the  reward),  and  with  the  progress,  rather 
than  the  particular  stage  reached,  in  mind,  is  my  aim.  So  I  have 
tossed  overboard  all  my  fears  and  regrets,  and  gone  in  for  the  higher 
problems  of  maturity. 

Still,  a  few  of  the  maxims  I  drew  from  my  joys  and  sorrows  in 
the  few  calmer  moments  of  reverie  persist ;  and  these  all  strengthen 
me  in  the  romantic  view  of  life.  A  man  must  take  his  work  or  his 
art  seriously,  and  pursue  it  with  a  single  intent ;  he  must  fix  upon 
the  realities  first  of  all,  but  there  is  room  for  imagination  as  well,  and 
with  this  I  have  savoured  my  duties,  as  one  puts  sauce  to  pudding. 
Enough  has  been  written  upon  the  earnestness  of  motive,  of  sobriety 
and  all  the  catalogue  of  virtues  usually  dignified  with  capital  initials. 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


I  own  allegiance  to  an  empire  beside  all  that — 
another  Forest  of  Arden  —  the  tinkle  of  whose 
laughter  is  a  permanent  sustained  accompaniment  to 
the  more  significant  notes  of  man's  sober  industries. 

Must  I  be  dubbed  trifler  then,  because  I  make  a 
game  of  life  ?  Every  man  of  spirit  and  imagination  must,  I 
think,  be  a  true  sportsman.  It  is  in  the  blood  of  genius  to 
love  play  for  its  own  sake,  and  whether  one  uses  one's  skill  on 
thrones  or  women,  swords  or  pens,  gold  or  fame,  the  game  's  the 
thing !  Surely,  it  is  not  only  the  reward  that  makes  it  worth 
while,  it  is  the  problem  —  the  study  of  each  step  on  the  way, 
the  disentangling  of  the  knotted  cord  of  fate,  the  sequence  and 
climax  of  move  after  move,  the  logical  grasp  of  what  is  to  come 
upon  the  chess-board.  As  it  is  in  the  great,  then,  may  it  not  be  in 
the  small?  To  one  of  fancy  and  poetic  vision,  mere  size  is  an 
accident,  a  personal  element,  a  relative,  not  an  absolute  quality  of 
things.  The  microscope  reveals  wonders  to  the  scientist,  as  great 
and  as  important  as  does  the  telescope.  To  the  poet,  "  a  primrose 
by  the  river's  brim"  has  the  beauty  of  the  Infinite.  And  so  nothing 
is  commonplace,  or  to  be  taken  for  granted.  One  needs  only  the 
fresh  eye,  the  eagerness  of  interest,  and  this  Universe  of  workaday 
things  which,  with  the  animals,  we  get  "  for  a  penny,  plain,"  may  be 
coloured  with  the  twopence  worth  of  mind  by  which  we  are  richer 
than  they. 

We  have  all  passed  through  that  phase  of  art-appreciation  in 
which  familiar  objects  are  endowed  with  an  extrinsic  aesthetic  value. 
The  realist  discovers  a  new  sensation  in  a  heap  of  refuse,  the  impres- 
sionist in  the  purple  shadows  of  the  hills.  In  weaker  intellects  the 
craving  for  this  dignifying  of  the  obvious  leads  to  the  gilding  of  the 

8 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


rolling-pin  or  the  decalcomanie  decoration  of  the 
bean-pot.  With  something  of  each  of  these  methods, 
I  would  practice  upon  every-day  affairs,  and  make 
them  picturesque. 

This  is,  perhaps,  a  characteristically  Oriental 
point  of  view  of  life.  Undoubtedly  it  is  the  Japanese  pose, 
and  it  is  well  illustrated  in  their  art.  What  by  Korin  would 
be  thought  too  insignificant  for  portrayal?  He  had  but  to  sep- 
arate an  object,  or  a  group  of  objects,  from  its  environment  and 
he  beheld  a  design,  with  line,  mass,  colour  and  notan.  Art 
was  to  him  not  a  question  of  subject,  but  of  composition.  He 
held  his  frame  before  a  tiny  fragment  of  the  visible  world,  any 
fragment,  indeed,  and,  placing  that  in  its  true  position,  not  in 
regard  to  its  surroundings,  but  in  regard  to  the  frame,  it  became 
a  pattern.  May  we  not,  for  our  diversion,  do  thus  with  Life?  If 
we  hold  up  our  frame,  disregarding  the  accidental  shadows  of 
tradition  and  establishment,  we  may  see  bits  of  a  new  world. 

It  is  thus  that  the  man  from  Mars  would  view  our  life  and 
manners.  Unsophisticated,  he  would  hold  his  frame  in  front  of  a 
man,  and,  cutting  him  off  from  his  family,  his  neighbours,  his  position 
in  Society,  he  would  see  a  personage  as  real  and  as  individual  as 
"  the  Man  with  the  Glove,"  or  "  the  Unknown  Woman  "  is  to  us. 
He  would  bring  an  uncorrupted  eye  and  see  strange  pictures  in  the 
facts  of  our  jaded  routine.  He  would  see  in  accustomed  meetings 
and  actions  hidden  possibilities  and  secret  charms.  He  would 
witness  this  drab  life  of  ours  as  a  bewilderingly  endless  romance. 
Nothing  would  be  presupposed,  nothing  foreseen,  and  each  turn  of 
the  kaleidoscope  would  exhibit  another  of  the  infinitely  various 
permutations  of  human  relationship. 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


Such  is  the  philosophy  of  youth.     It  denies  the 
conventional    postulates    of    the    Philistine.     It   will 
not  accept   the   axioms    of  the   unimaginative;    two 
and  two  may  prove  to   make  five,  upon  due  inves- 
tigation, seemingly  parallel  cases  may  widely  diverge, 
and   the   greater   may    not   always   include    the    less,  in    this  non- 
Euclidean  Geometry  of  Life.     It  transmutes  the  prose  of  living  into 
the  poetry  of  idealization,  as  love  transmutes  the    physical  fact  of 
osculation  into  the  beatitude  of  a  kiss.     It  makes  mysteries  of  well- 
known  occurrences,  and  it  turns  accepted  marvels  into  simple  truths, 
comprehensible  and  self-evident. 

Civilization  refines  and  analyzes.  It  seeks  the  invisible  rays  of 
the  spectrum  and  delights  in  overtones,  subtle  vibrations  and  delicate 
nuances  of  thought.  So  this  neglected  philosophy  of  enthusiasm 
also  gleans  the  neglected  and  forgotten  mysteries  of  humanity.  Its 
virtue  is  in  its  economy;  it  wrings  the  last  drop  of  sensation  from 
experience.  Like  modern  processes  of  manufacture  it  produces  good 
from  what  was  considered  but  waste  and  tailings.  By  a  positive 
contribution  to  happiness  it  refutes  the  charge  of  trifling,  for  in  the 
practice  of  this  art  one  does  but  pick  up  what  has  been  thrown  away. 
All's  fish  that  comes  to  its  net. 

But  it  is  more  than  a  science  ;  it  has  more  than  an  economic 
value  for  happiness — it  is  a  religion.  The  creed  of  hope  bids  one 
wonder  and  hope  and  rejoice,  it  teaches  us  to  listen  for  the  whispered 
voice,  to  see  the  spirit  instead  of  the  body  of  the  facts  of  life.  But 
it  does  more  ;  it  is  illuminating,  and  reveals  a  new  conception  of 
beauty.  There  is  an  apocryphal  legend  of  the  Christ  that  tells  how 
He  with  His  disciples  were  passing  along  a  road,  when  they  came 
upon  the  body  of  a  dead  dog.  Those  with  Him  shrank  from 

10 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


the    pitiful    sight    with    loathing,    and    drew    away. 

But  Jesus  went  calmly  up  to  the  decaying  flesh  and 

leaning  over  it,  said  gently,  "  How  beautifully  white 

are  his  teeth  ! "     The  customary  moral  drawn  from       ^*»*t 

the  story  is  one  of  gentleness  and  pity,  the  kindness 

and   charity  of  looking  at  the  good,  rather  than  the  evil    that   is 

present.     But    it    has  a  more  literal   meaning,  and    teaches    clearly 

the  lesson  of  beauty. 

For  it  has  come  to  this :  that  even  in  our  pleasures  we 
are  influenced  by  prejudice  and  tradition.  Some  things  are  as 
empirically  branded  beautiful  or  ugly,  as  others  are  declared 
right  or  wrong,  and  to  this  dogma  we  conform.  Korin,  when  he 
held  his  frame  before  a  clothes-line  fluttering  with  damp  garments, 
saw  not  only  an  interesting  design,  but  a  beautiful  one;  yet  the 
Monday's  wash  might  be  taken  as  something  typically  vulgar  and 
ugly  to  the  common  mind. 

We  Anglo-Saxons  have  debased  many  facts  of  life,  once  rightly 
thought  of  as  exquisitely  beautiful,  into  the  category  of  the  beast. 
Sexual  passion  is  the  great  example,  but  there  are  myriads  of  lesser 
things  which,  viewed  calmly,  purely,  as  some  strange  god  able  to 
see  clearly  without  passion  or  prejudice,  might  view  them,  would 
take  on  lovely  aspects.  When  such  situations  approach  the  pathetic, 
as  the  sight  of  some  forlorn  half-naked  mother  nursing  her  child  on 
a  doorstep,  or  the  housemaid,  denied  of  the  chance  of  seclusion, 
embracing  her  lover  in  the  publicity  of  the  park,  this  diviner  phase 
of  common  human  nature  is  patent  to  the  casual  observer.  When 
they  approach  the  comic,  also,  it  is  easier  to  believe  that  every  scene 
may  have  its  complimentary  phase,  and  the  most  careless  may  read 
the  joke  between  the  lines.  But  much  of  the  more  subtle  delight 

I  I 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


april 
Cssaps 


of   life   escapes   us,  like   the    tree-toad   in    the    oak, 
because  it  is  so  much  a  part  of  its  surroundings ;  its 
charm  is  of  so  intrinsic  a  value  that  we  do  not  notice 
it.     We  are  used  to  finding  our  beauty  within  gilt 
rectangles,  set  off  from  other  things  not  so  denom- 
inated as  especially  worthy  of  regard ;    we  expect  it  to  be  labelled 
and  highly  coloured. 

Two    things   alone    remain    safe   from   this  bias  of  custom  — 

Love   and   Youth.     To    the    lover,  the    tying  of   a   shoe-lace  on 

his  mistress's  foot   may   be    as   sacred  a  rite  and  may  contain  as 

much  sentiment   as   the   most   impassioned  caress.     To  the  child, 

the    mud-pile    has    possibilities    of   infinite    bliss.      To    the    one 

comes  eternal  beauty,  to  the   other   eternal  mystery.     And  so,  to 

touch  these  forever,  and  to  lose  no  intermediary  sensation 

of  charm,  whether  it  be  humour,  romance,  pathos 

or  inspiration,  to  be  bound  by  every  link 

that  connects  Youth  to   Love, 

that  was  my  April  essay  ! 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


(getting  acquainted 


TWO  lives  moving  in  mysterious  orbits  are  drawn  to- 
gether, and  for  an  instant,  or  maybe  for  ever  after,  whirl 
side  by  side.  We  call  the  encounter  an  introduction, 
and  we  usually  proceed  to  stifle  the  wonder  of  it  by  im- 
personal talk  of  art,  books  or  the  drama.  It  is  an  every-day  affair 
and  does  not  commonly  stir  the  imagination.  And  yet  to  the  con- 
noisseur in  living  the  meeting  may  be  an  event  as  well  as  an  epi- 
sode. He  is  a  discoverer  come  to  an  unknown  shore — it  may  be 
the  margent  of  a  boundless  sea  or  not,  but  of  a  certain  it  is  swung 
by  new  tides  and  currents  to  be  adventured  and  plumbed. 

How  can  we,  supercivilized  out  of  almost  all  real  emotion,  de- 
velop the  potential  charm  of  this  first  glimpse  of  a  new  personality  ? 
It  is  guarded  by  conventionality;  the  shutters  are  down,  the  door  is 
barricaded ;  you  may  knock  in  vain  with  polite  interrogations,  and 
no  one  appears  at  the  window.  Must  we  perforce  set  the  house  afire, 
smite  or  shriek  aloud  to  bring  this  stranger's  soul  to  his  eyes  for  one 
searching  gaze,  face  to  face  ?  The  time  is  so  short — we  must  greet, 
and  pass  on  to  the  next ;  we  exchange  easy  commonplaces,  and  so 
the  chance  vanishes.  Why  not  defy  custom  and  boldly  snatch  in 
that  magic  moment  some  satisfactory  taste  of  warm  human 
intercourse  ? 

Curiously  enough,  this  strangeness — this  lack  of  background  in 
new  acquaintances  —  is  one  of  the  freshest  charms  of  meeting.  Who 
would  not  throw  off  all  restraint  and  talk  frankly  with  a  man  from 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


the  phmet  Mars  or  Venus?  Could  we  resurrect  an 
inhabitant  of  Atlantis  we  could  give  him  our  whole 
(pitting  confidence — and  even  a  South  Sea  Islander,  were  he 
intelligent,  might  be  our  confessor.  Where  then  shall 
we  draw  the  line  of  convention?  Mars  is  some 
140,000,000  miles  away — San  Francisco  is  but  9,000 — the  ratio  is 
inadequate  but  there  is  a  guarantee  of  candour  in  mere  distance. 
May  we  not  apply  the  same  rule  to  nearer  neighbours  and  look  upon 
them  in  this  interesting  light? 

There  is  no  such  stimulating  instant  possible  for  old  friends 
for  they  are  bound  by  preconceived  ideals  of  personality — they  are 
pigeon-holed  as  this  or  that — circumscribed  by  mutual  duty  and  sac- 
rifice ;  they  must  reconcile  present  whims  to  past  vagaries ;  they  are 
held  to  strict  account  of  consistency  with  previous  moods ;  but  on 
our  first  meeting  with  another  we  are  free  of  all  this  constraint,  and 
if  we  have  courage  may  meet  soul  to  soul  without  reserves.  We 
may  confess  unreliable  things  in  that  moment,  for  there  is  no  per- 
spective of  formulated  opinion  into  which  the  confidence  must  be  fit- 
ted— the  little  secret  is  safe  alone  in  the  new  mind,  and  will  not  be 
held  to  intolerable  account.  We  may  even  for  this  once  state  a 
brutal  truth,  for  we  are  unpledged  to  distressing  considerations.  We 
may  be  in  some  few  sacred  thoughts  more  intimate  with  a  stranger 
than  with  an  old  friend.  Such  is  the  divine  franchise  of  this  first 
sudden  opportunity.  No  compact  is  yet  sealed;  you  must  take  me 
as  you  find  me,  like  me  or  not,  it  matters  little,  since  it  is  for  us  to 
say  whether  or  not  we  shall  meet  again. 

This  play  is,  as  Dickens  says  of  melancholy,  "one  of  the  cheap- 
est and  most  accessible  of  luxuries,"  for  the  scene  is  always  ready, 
set  in  the  nearest  drawing-room.  Every  stranger  has  a  possible  fas- 

14 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


cination  and  comes  like  a  prince  incognito t,  It  is 
probably  your  own  fault,  not  his,  if  the  disguise  is  not 
dropped  during  the  first  impetuous  flurry  of  talk.  ®^ 
Children  do  these  things  better,  making  friends  not 
inch  by  inch,  but  by  bold  advances  of  genuine  con- 
fidence, yet  approaching  each  new  mystery  with  respect.  So  we,  too, 
like  the  child,  must  dress  these  our  dolls,  and  put  them  into  their 
first  mental  attitudes  with  sincerity  and  trust  before  they  will  come 
to  life.  We  must  put  much  feeling  into  the  relation — giving  and 
taking — so  much  that  we  cannot  only  confide  our  tenderest  spiritual 
aspirations,  but  invest  trifles  with  unaccustomed  worth  and  signifi- 
cance. These  are  not  impossible  sensations  even  for  such  accidental 
fellowship,  for  nothing  is  too  unimportant  to  reveal  personality  and 
orient  one's  point  of  view.  But  we  must  proceed  from  the  inside, 
outward — beginning  with  truths  and  thence  to  fancy.  It  is  the  apriori 
method ;  not  deducing  the  character  of  your  neighbour  from  his  visi- 
ble idiosyncracies  of  taste  and  habit,  but  boldly  inducing  a  new  con- 
ception, making  him  what  you  will,  and  varying  the  picture  by 
successive  approximations  as  his  words  and  actions  modify  your 
theory. 

No  one  is  too  dull  for  the  experiment,  as  no  mummy  is  too  com- 
mon to  be  unwrapped.  Granted  only  that  he  is  newly  found,  so  that 
you  have  imagination,  romance  and  sentiment  on  your  palette,  you 
may  paint  him  as  you  will.  The  colours  may  wash,  but  for  the 
while  he  is  your  puppet  and  must  dance  to  your  piping,  if,  indeed, 
you  do  not  become  his. 

There  are  those,  of  course,  who  will  but  cry  "Oh! "  and  "Ah! " 
to  your  essays — dolts  with  neither  wits  nor  words  nor  worth,  who 
take  all  and  give  nothing;  no  one  can  set  such  damp  stuff  afire. 

'5 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


Well,  after  all,  though  you  have  unmasked,  retreat  is 
still  possible.     With  how   many  duller  friends  have 
tn^       you  given  your  parole  and  cannot  escape  with  honour  ! 
acquaint**  Indeed,  it  is  not  so  desirable  that  we  should  al- 

ways win,  as  that  the  game  itself  be  worth  the  playing. 
One  must  not  expect  to  make  a  friend  at  each  introduction.  To 
make  the  most  of  the  minute  in  this  way,  then,  to  strike  while  the 
iron  is  hot  (and,  better,  to  heat  it  yourself) — this  is  the  art  of  get- 
ting acquainted.  It  is  the  higher  flirtation,  not  dependent  upon  sex 
or  temperament,  but  of  many  subtler  dimensions,  and  though  it 
soon  turns  into  the  old  familiar  ruts,  the  first  steps,  made  pictur- 
esque by  a  common  fancy,  shall  never  lose  their  glamour,  and  one 
shall  remember  to  the  very  last  how  the  first  shots  went  home. 

But  do  not  confound  playing  with  playing  a  part.     One  may 

do  all  this  sincerely,  honestly  giving  good  coin,  and  that  is  the  only 

game  worth  while ;  for  of  a  sudden  it  may  wake  into  new  beauty  like 

a  dream    come    true,  and    you  will  find  yourself  in  Arcady.     No 

more  fooling  then,  for  the  real  you  is  walking  by  my  side,  hand 

in    hand.     We    shall    not    be    sorry    either,    shall    we,    that    we 

hurried   round    the    first    corner    into    the   open  —  that   we 

jumped  a  few  hedges  ?     Surely  we  have  an    infinite 

friendship  for  our  inaccessible  goal,  and  though 

the  first  rush  was  exhilarating,  there  are 

more  inspiring  heights  beyond ! 


16 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


Btntnjj 


WHY  human  beings  are  so  fond  of  eating  together  and 
making  a   ceremonial  of  the    business    it   is  hard    to 
say.     Man  is  almost  the  only  animal  who  prefers  to 
consume  his  food  in  company  with  his  kind,  for  even 
sheep  and  cattle  wander  apart  as  they  graze,  seeking  private  delica- 
cies.    Early  in  the  morning,  it  is  true,  most  cultivated  persons  are 
savages,  preferring  to  breakfast  in  seclusion  and  dishabille ;    lunch 
time  finds  them  in  a  slightly  barbarous  state,  and  they  tolerate  com- 
pany; but  by  evening  we  all  become  gregarious  and  social,  and  we 
resent  the  absence  of  an  expected  companion  at  the  table  as  of  a 
course  omitted. 

And  so,  whether  we  dine  at  home  or  abroad  we  call  it  a  poor 
dinner  where  we  have  good  things  only  to  eat.  The  dullest,  most 
provincial  hostess  has  come  to  understand  this,  and  each  does  what 
she  can,  in  inviting  guests,  to  form  partnerships  or  combinations 
sympathetic  and  enlivening.  There  are,  of  course,  always  those  im- 
possibles, poor  relations  or  what-not,  whom  policy  or  politeness  im- 
peratively demands,  and  every  dinner-table  is,  in  attempt  at  least,  a 
conversational  constellation  of  stars  of  the  first  magnitude  separated 
by  lesser  lights. 

From  these  fixed  stars  radiate  flashes  of  talk,  and  supplement- 
ing this,  the  laughter  of  the  connecting  circle  should  follow  as  punc- 
tually as  thunder  upon  lightning.  The  hostess,  like  a  beneficent  sun, 
kindles  and  warms  and  sways  her  little  system,  while  the  servants 

17 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


revolve  about  the  table  in  their  courses,  like  orderly 
planets. 

guj.  we  mjght  push  the  allegory  a  step  farther. 

fiDUt  Though  the  round  of  a  score  of  dinners  may  exhibit 
no  more  unusual  a  cosmogony  than  this,  yet  at  every 
thirty-third  event,  perhaps,  we  may  encounter  a  comet !  There  is  no 
prognosticating  his  eccentric  course ;  he  comes  and  goes  according  to 
a  mysterious  law,  but  wherever  he  appears,  blazing  with  a  new  light, 
foreign  to  all  our  conventions,  he  is  a  compelling  attraction,  drawing 
the  regular  and  steady  orbs  of  fashion  this  way  and  that  out  of 
their  orbits,  shifting  their  axes,  and  upsetting  social  tides  and  seasons. 

To  such  an  innovator  a  dinner  is  given  not  for  food  but  for 
pastime,  and  it  is  a  game  of  which  he  may  change  the  rules  as  soon 
and  as  often  as  they  hamper  his  enjoyment.  It  matters  little  to  him 
that  he  is  dressed  for  a  feast  of  propriety.  To  him  alone  it  is  not 
a  livery  ;  he  is  not  the  servant  of  custom.  If  it  pleases  him  to  settle 
a  dispute  out  of  hand,  he  will  send  the  butler  for  the  dictionary 
while  the  discussion  is  hot,  or  more  likely  go  himself  forthright.  If 
he  wishes  to  see  a  red  rose  in  the  hair  of  his  host's  daughter  over 
against  him,  he  will  whip  round  two  corners  to  her  place,  and  adjust 
the  decoration.  And  if  it  is  necessary  to  his  thesis  that  you,  his 
shocked  or  amused  partner,  help  him  illustrate  a  Spanish  jerabe,  you 
too  must  up  and  help  him  in  the  pantomime  if  you  would  not  have 
such  fine  enthusiasm  wasted  for  a  scruple. 

I  knew  one  such  once  who  retrieved  an  almost  hopelessly  mis- 
arranged  dinner  by  his  generalship,  usurping  the  power  of  the 
hostess  herself.  The  guests  were  distributed  in  a  way  to  give  the 
greatest  possible  discomfort  to  the  greatest  number,  though  from 
stupidity  rather  than  from  malice.  Mr.  Comet  solved  the  problem 

18 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


at  a  glance.  He  rose  before  the  fish  was  served,  with 
a  wine-glass  in  one  hand  and  his  serviette  in  the  other. 
"The  gentlemen,"  he  announced,  "will  all  kindly 
move  to  the  left  four  places."  It  was  before  the  day 
of  "progressive  dinner  parties,"  and  the  scheme  was 
new.  The  ladies  gasped  at  his  audacity,  but  after  this  change  of  part- 
ners the  function  began  to  succeed. 

Your  comet,  then,  must  not  only  be  a  social  anarchist  but  he 
must  convert  the  whole  company,  or  he  presents  merely  the  sorry 
spectacle  of  a  man  making  a  fool  of  himself,  never  a  sight  condu- 
cive to  appetite  or  to  refined  amusement,  except  perhaps  to  the  cynic. 
He  must  be  able  to  swing  the  situation.  He  must  believe,  and  con- 
vince others,  that  the  true  object  of  a  dinner  is  to  amuse,  and  if  it 
should  take  all  of  the  time  devoted  to  the  entree  for  him  to  show 
the  pretty  sculptress  at  his  right  how  to  model  an  angel  out  of  bread, 
his  observing  hostess  should  feel  no  pang  that  he  has  neglected  his 
brochette.  After  all,  the  elaborate  supervision  of  the  mtnu  was  un- 
dertaken, any  modern  hostess  will  acknowledge,  only  that,  in  the  dire 
case  her  guests  did  not  succeed  in  amusing  each  other,  they  might 
at  least  have  good  things  to  eat.  Every  dish  untasted  in  the  excite- 
ment of  conversation,  then,  should  be  a  tribute  to  her  higher  skill  in 
experiments  with  human  chemistry. 

If  she  can  catch  no  comet,  however,  she  must  be  contented  with 
lesser  meteoric  wits  who  make  up  for  real  brilliancy  by  saying  what 
they  do  say  quickly  and  spontaneously ;  with  the  punsters,  in  short, 
and  such  hair-trigger  intellects.  Failing  these,  the  last  class  above 
the  bores-positive  are  those  well-meaning  diners-out  who  load 
themselves  with  stories  for  a  dinner  as  a  soldier  goes  into  an  engage- 
ment with  a  belt  full  of  cartridges.  They  may  not  get  a  chance  for 

19 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


SDfnins 
flDttt 


a  shot  very  often,  but,  given  an  opening,  their  fire  is 
accurate  and  deadly  till  the  last  round  is  gone,  when 
they  are  at  the  mercy  of  a  more  inventive  wit.  Yet 
even  these  welter-weights  have  their  place  at  the  table, 
for  we  must  have  bread  as  well  as  wine. 

It  was  one  of  Lewis  Carroll's  pet  fancies  to  have  a  dinner-table 
in  the  shape  of  a  ring,  and  half  the  guests  seated  inside  upon  a  plat- 
form which  revolved  slowly  round  the  circle  till  each  one  had  circum- 
navigated the  orbit  and  passed  opposite  every  guest  seated  on  the 
outside  of  the  table.  But  this  would  break  up  many  of  the  little 
secret  schemes  for  which  the  modern  dinner  is  planned,  and  many  a 
young  man  would  suddenly  find  himself  flirting  with  the  wrong  lady 
across  the  board. 

And  this  last  hint  carries  me  from  the  exoteric  to  the  esoteric 

charms  of  the  dinner.     Here,  however,  you  must  guess  your  own 

way;  I  dare  not  tell  you  precisely  what  it  means  when  Celestine 

shifts  her  glass  from  left  to  right  of  her  plate,  nor  what  I  answer 

when  I  raise  my  serviette  by  one  corner,  for  Celestine  and  I  may 

dine  with  you  some  day,  and  you  may  remember  our  little  code. 

You  would  better  not   invite  me   anyway,  for,  though  I 

am    no   comet,  yet    I    admit    I   would   be   mad 

enough   to  upset  the  claret  purposely 

rather  than    have    nothing 

exciting  happen! 


2O 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


Cije 


A  THERE'S   the   rub!     If   we   could    but   forecast   our 
dreams,  who  would  care  to  keep  awake?  In  that,  we  are 
no  further  advanced  than  in  the  times  of  Pythagoras ; 
still  clumsy,  ignorant  amateurs  in  this  most  fascinating 
and  mysterious  game,  played  by  every  race  and  condition  of  men 
under  the  moon.     There  are  some,  maybe,  who  do  not  dream,  poor 
half-made  men  and  women,  to  whom  a  waking,  literal  prosaic  life  is 
the  whole  of  existence.     They  stay  idly  at  home,  while  you  and  I 
take  ship  upon    the  Unknown  Sea  and    navigate  uncharted  waters 
every  night.     Then  we  are  poets,  dunces,  philosophers,  clowns  or 
madcaps  of  sorts  in  a  secret  carnival,  changing  not  only  our  cos- 
tumes, but  often  our  very  selves,  doffing  conscience,  habit  and  taste, 
to  play  a  new  part  at  each  performance. 

If  we  could  but  manage  this  raree-show,  and  not  be  mere  mar- 
ionettes, wired  to  the  finger  of  the  Magician,  what  tremendous 
adventures  might  we  not  undertake  !  We  have  rare  glimpses  of  the 
Lesser  Mysteries,  but  the  inner  secrets  of  that  inconsequential  empire 
are  still  undiscovered.  The  revels  confound  us  ;  we  are  whirled,  in- 
toxicated or  drugged,  into  a  realm  of  confusion,  and,  out  of  touch 
with  senses,  reason  and  will,  we  cannot  quite  keep  our  heads  clear. 
How  many  of  us  have  tried  to  "dream  true,"  like  Peter  Ibbetson, 
even  to  obeying  the  foolish  formula  he  described,  lying,  hands  under 
head,  foot  upon  foot,  murmuring  his  magic  words? 

Try  as  we  may,  those  of  us  who  are  true  dreamers  can  never 

21 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


quite  accept  the  psychologist's  explanation  of  dreams. 
Some  cases  may  be  easily  understood,  perhaps,  such  as 
tne  pathological  influence  of  a  Welsh  rarebit,  a  super- 
abundance  of  bed  covers,  or  suggestive  noises.  We 
may  account,  too,  for  those  absurd  visions  that  appear 
so  often  on  awakening,  when  one  sense  after  another  comes  breaking 
into  our  consciousness,  and  when  the  mind,  summoned  suddenly  to 
construct  some  reasonable  relation  between  incongruous  floating  pic- 
tures, seizes  upon  any  explanation,  however  ridiculous.  But  of 
deeper  dreams,  dreams  logical  or  meaningful,  dreams  that  recur  or 
are  shared  by  others,  modern  science  does  not  give  any  satisfactory 
theory,  and  we  are  forced,  willingly  enough  no  doubt,  to  apply  the 
hypotheses  of  mysticism. 

There  are  dreams,  too,  so  progressive  and  educational  that  they 
seem  to  involve  a  new  science  unknown  in  this  workaday  world. 
So  many  of  us  have  had  experiences  with  levitation  in  our  dream 
life  that  we  are,  so  to  speak,  a  cult.  I  myself  began  by  jumping, 
timing  each  spring  with  the  precise  moment  of  alighting  from  a  pre- 
vious leap,  profiting  by  the  rebound,  and,  after  many  experiments  I 
am  now  able  to  float  freely,  even  accomplishing  that  most  dim- 
cult  of  all  feats,  rising  in  the  air  by  a  deliberate  concentrated  effort 
of  will,  even  while  lying  on  my  back.  Yet  all  of  us,  jumpers,  fly- 
ers or  floaters,  must  wait  till  that  wonderful  dream  comes  to  us, 
after  months  maybe,  to  indulge  in  that  most  exhilarating  pastime. 

Children's  dreams  are  (until  they  are  cruelly  undeceived)  quite 
as  real  as  their  waking  moments,  and  it  may  be  that  we  shall,  in  time, 
learn  the  forgotten  art  from  them.  It  is  dependent,  no  doubt, 
upon  their  power  of  visualizing  imagined  objects  while  their  eyes  are 
shut,  but  while  still  awake ;  but  this  ability  to  call  up  the  images  of 

22 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


anything  at  will  is  as  soon  lost  as  their  belief  in 
dreams.  Though  this  habit  fades  and  is  forgotten  in 
the  growing  reality  of  our  outward  life,  it  may  not  be 
impossible  with  practice  to  regain  the  proficiency,  for 
at  times  of  great  physical  fatigue  and  mental  exalta- 
tion the  power  comes  back,  often  intensified  almost  to  the  point  of 
hallucination.  If  we  could  train  our  imagination  then,  and  learn  to 
see  pictures  when  our  eyes  are  shut,  these  might  become  more  accu- 
rate and  real,  so  that  at  the  moment  of  sinking  into  unconsciousness, 
as  we  lose  hold  on  tangible  things,  the  vision  would  become  one  with 
the  reality,  and,  still  imagining  and  creating,  we  might  pass  over  the 
footlights  and  dream  true.  To  most  of  us  there  comes  a  recogniz- 
able moment  when  we  know  we  are  just  at  the  border  of  sleep ;  if 
we  could  then  with  our  last  effort  of  will  keep  control  of  the  mov- 
ing pictures  we  might  go  wherever  we  wished. 

We  might  learn,  too,  to  remember  more  of  what  happens  in  the 
night.  We  usually  give  what  has  passed  in  dream  no  more  than  an 
indulgent  smile,  and  forget  the  strangeness  of  it  all  as  soon  as  we 
are  well  awake.  It  is  as  if  we  had  hurriedly  turned  the  pages  of  an 
illustrated  book.  We  recall,  here  and  there,  a  few  striking  pictures, 
beautiful  or  comic,  and  the  volume  is  replaced  upon  the  shelves  not 
to  be  taken  down  till  the  next  evening.  It  is  a  book  from  which 
we  learn  little  ;  its  contents  are  not  even  amusing  to  any  one  else,  who 
has  as  fanciful  tales  in  his  own  dreamland  library.  If  we  could,  upon 
first  awakening,  impress  our  minds  with  the  reality  of  our  dreams, 
we  might  be  able  to  recall  more  and  more,  and  find  that  in  spite  of 
their  incongruity  there  was  some  law  which  governed  their  visitation 
and  some  meaning  in  their  grotesque  patterns. 

To  one  who  dreams  frequently,  bedtime  cannot  fail  to  be  some- 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


thing  to  look  forward  to,  to  hope  and  to  prepare  for 
with  efforts  to  capture  in  the  net  of  sleep  some  beau- 
tifol  dream.     May  we  not,  sometime,  find  the  proper 
bait,  and  lie  down  confident  that  we  shall  be  duly  en- 
chanted in    some   delightful    way,   according   to    our 
desires?     Till  then  we  must  each  buy  our  nightly  ticket  in  Sleep's 
lottery,  and  draw  a  blank  or  a  prize,  as  Morpheus  wills.     Some  say 
that  the  most  refreshing  sleep  is  absolute  unconsciousness  of  time — 
that  one  should  shut  one's  eyes,  only  to  open  them  in  the  morning, 
with  the  night  all  unaccounted  for.     But  no  true  dreamer  will  assent 
to  this ;    he  knows  it  is  not  so.     I  was  told  in  my  youth,  that  if 
I  turned  the  toes  of  my  boots  toward  the  bed,  I  should 
have  a  nightmare.     I  confess   I  have  never  dared 
try  it.  But,  rather  than  not  dream  at  all,  I 
believe  I  should  be  tempted  to  haz- 
ard the  experiment. 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


Cfje  art  of 


TIME  was  when  we  made  our  own  toys;  when  a  piece  of 
twine,  a  spool,  a  few  nails  and  a  bit  of  imagination  could 
keep  us  busy  and  happy  all  day  long.  There  were  no 
new-fangled  iron  toys  "  made  in  Germany,"  so  tiresome 
in  their  inevitable  little  routine  of  performance,  so  easily  got  out  of 
order,  and  so  hard,  metallic  and  realistic  as  to  be  hardly  worth  the 
purchase.  A  penny  would,  indeed,  buy  some  funny  carved  wooden 
thing  that  aroused  a  half-hour's  excitement,  but  it  was  never  quite 
so  alluring  as  when  in  the  front  window  of  the  toy-shop.  Such 
queer  animals  never  became  thoroughly  acclimated  to  the  nursery, 
and  they  lost  their  lustre  in  a  half-holiday.  The  things  that  gave 
permanent  satisfaction  were  home-made,  crude  and  capable  of  trans- 
formation. A  railway  train  might,  with  a  small  effort  of  the  fancy, 
become  a  ship  or  a  dragon.  Are  there  such  amateur  toy-builders 
now,  in  this  age  when  everything  is  perfect  and  literal,  when  even  a 
box  of  building-blocks  contains  a  book  of  plans  to  supply  imagina- 
tive design  to  the  modern  child?  Indeed,  many  children  are  nowa- 
years  too  lazy  even  to  do  their  own  playing.  I  have  heard  of  one 
who  was  used  to  sit  on  a  chair  and  order  his  nurse  to  align  his  nine- 
pins and  bowl  them  down  for  him  ! 

Perhaps  one  notices  the  lack  of  creative  ability  in  children  more 
in  the  city  where  ready-made  toys  are  cheap  and  accessible,  than  in 
the  country  where  the  whole  world  is  full  of  wonderful  possibilities 
for  entrancing  pastime.  Nature  is  the  universal  playmate,  perpet- 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


ually  parodying  herself  in  miniature  for  the  benefit  of 
those  who  love  to  amuse  themselves  with  her  toys. 
&ti       Every  brook  is  a  little  river,  every  pond  an  unfath- 
omabie  sea>     sne  plants  tiny  forests  of  fern  and  raises 
microscopic  mountains  in  every  sand-bank.     Flowers 
and  plants  furnish  provender  for  Lilliputian  groceries,  the  oak  showers 
acorn  cups ;  what  wonder  we  believe,  as  long  as  we  can,  in  fairies  ? 

And  yet,  strange  to  say,  it  is  the  city  more  often  than  the  coun- 
try child  who  feels  the  charm  of  these  marvels.  The  freshness  and 
the  strangeness  breed  a  fascinated  wonder;  it  is,  after  flagged  pave- 
ments and  brick  walls,  almost  too  good  to  be  true.  The  juvenile 
rustic  is  more  familiar  with  Nature.  It  is  his  business  to  know  when 
the  flowers  come,  where  berries  ripen  and  birds  nest.  It  is  scarcely 
play  to  him,  it  is  a  science  to  be  applied  to  his  personal  profit.  The 
woods  and  rivulets  are  his  familiar  domain,  to  be  forayed  and  hunted 
specifically  for  gain.  And  this,  though  it  is  delightful,  is  not  play. 
For  him,  there  is  no  glamour  over  the  fields  until  long  after,  when 
his  native  countryside  has  become  inaccessible. 

Perhaps  the  art  of  playing  is,  after  all,  a  matter  more  of  tem- 
perament than  environment,  for  one  sees,  at  times,  good  sport  even 
in  the  city  streets,  though  it  is  rare  nowadays.  I  had  my  own  full 
share  of  it,  for  my  youth  was  an  age  of  pure  romance.  My  clan  had 
its  own  code  and  its  own  traditions.  Every  man  of  us  had  his  suit 
of  wooden  armour,  his  well-wrought  weapons  and  his  fiery  steed. 
We  were  all  for  Scott.  We  had  our  Order,  small,  but  well  up  in 
the  technique  of  feudal  ways,  facile  in  sword-play,  both  with  the  thin, 
sinewy  hard-pine  rapier,  and  the  huge,  two-handed,  double-hiked  bat- 
tle-sword that  should  stand  just  as  high  as  one's  head.  On  the  brick 
sidewalks  we  tilted  on  velocipedes,  full  in  the  view  of  the  anxious 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


passers-by.       Cap-a-pie  in  pine  sheathed  with  tin,  with 

a  shield  blazoned  with  a  tiger  couchant,  and  inscribed 

with  a  Latin  motto  out  of  the  back  of  the  dictionary, 

many  a  long  red. lance  I  shivered,  and  many  a  wheel  I 

broke.     On  Warren  Avenue  I  did   it,  opposite  the 

church.    What  would  I  not  give,  now,  to  see  such  sights  in  town ! — 

instead,    I    watch  little    boys    smoking   cigarettes   upon    the   street 

corners,  waiting  for  their  girls. 

I  knew  a  youngster,  too,  who  organized  in  his  town  a  postoffice 
department,  established  letter-boxes  and  a  regular  service  of  boy  car- 
riers. He  drew  and  coloured  the  stamps  himself — you  will  find  them 
in  few  collections,  though  they  should  have  enormous  value  from 
their  rarity.  Such  games  are  consummate  play,  even  though  the 
sport  goes  awry  all  too  soon ;  it  is  too  great  to  last ! 

It  is  the  older  brother  who  should  give  finesse  to  such  sport. 
Without  him,  complications  arise  which  accomplish  at  last  the  ruin  of 
the  game.  Many  of  us  do  not  truly  learn  to  play  until  it  is  too 
late  to  do  so  with  dignity,  and  to  these,  the  appreciation  of  the  young 
gives  a  fine  excuse  for  prolonging  the  diversion.  We  fancy  we  can- 
not, when  grown  up,  play  imaginative  games  for  the  pure  joy  of  it, 
as  does  the  child ;  we  think  we  must  have  an  ulterior  motive.  Yet 
the  father,  who  whittles  out  a  boat  for  his  son,  often  gets  more  delight 
than  the  child,  who  would  far  rather  do  it  himself,  no  matter  how 
much  more  crudely  accomplished. 

The  theater  is  the  typical  play  for  grown-ups ;  the  name  itself, 
"play,"  is  significant  of  the  unquenchable  tendency  of  youth.  And 
this  reminds  me  of  a  most  amusing  case  where  two  grown-ups  dared 
to  be  absolutely  ingenuous.  It  was  upon  a  honeymoon,  when  if 
ever,  adults  have  the  right  to  yield  to  juvenile  impulses.  As  the 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


groom  was  titled  and  the  bride  fair,  society  took  it  ill 
that  the  two  should  retire  to  their  country  house  and 
&tt      jeny  access  to  au  neighbours.     One  at  last  called,  too 
Ot  piaping   important  to  be  denied  admittance  by  the  servants,  and 
the   astonished    visitor    discovered    the    happy    pair 
stretched  over  the  dining-room  table,  training  flies  whose  wings  had 
been  clipped,  to  pull,  in  a  harness  of  threads,  little  paper  wagons ! 
This  had  been  their  absorbing  occupation  for  ten  blissful  days ! 

An  important  element  of  play  seems  to  be  the  doing  of  things 
in  miniature.  See  Stevenson,  for  instance,  prone  upon  the  floor,  in- 
volved in  romantic  campaigns,  massing  his  troops  of  tin  soldiers,  oc- 
cupying strategic  positions  in  hall  and  passage,  skirmishing  over  the 
upstairs  "roads  of  the  Third  Class,  impassable  for  artillery,"  inter- 
cepting commissary  trains  labouring  up  from  the  Base  of  Operations 
in  the  kitchen,  deploying  cavalry-screens  upon  the  rug,  and 
out-manoeuvering  the  wily  foe  that  defends  the  verandah,  both 
being  bound  by  the  strict  treaties  of  the  play.  There  is  your 
ideal  big  brother,  and  the  game  of  toy  soldiers  is  glorified  into 
weeks  of  excitement! 

The  Japanese,  immortal  children,  carry  the  game  of  diminution 
to  its  extreme.  The  dwarfed  trees  and  the  excruciating  carved  ivo- 
ries are  not  the  only  symptoms  of  this  delightful  disease ;  for  the 
perfection  of  the  spirit  of  play  one  must  see  their  miniature  gardens, 
often  the  life-employment  of  the  owners.  No  matter  how  small  the 
patch  of  ground  employed,  every  inch  is  perfect.  Pebble  by  pebble, 
almost  grain  by  grain,  the  area  is  arranged,  the  tiny  rivulet  is  guided 
between  carefully  curved  banks,  wee  bridges  span  the  shores,  little 
lanterns  and  pagodas  are  artfully  placed,  plants  and  flowers  are  sown, 
trees  planted,  fishes  are  domiciled,  till  the  garden  is  a  replica  of 

28 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


Nature  at  her  best.  Each  view  is  a  toy  landscape,  and 
without  a  scale,  as  seen  in  a  photograph,  for  instance,  one 
might  think  it  a  garden  of  the  gods.  And  yet,  there 
is  a  sort  of  play  where  one  may  use  infinite  distances, 
macrocosms  for  microcosms,  if  one  has  the  courage 
and  the  power  of  visualization.  These  games  are  purely  mental, 
feats  of  the  imagination,  though  not  nearly  so  difficult  as 
might  be  thought.  I  know  a  sober,  workaday  lawyer,  for  in- 
stance, who  combines  the  two  methods  with  extraordinary  clev- 
erness. His  income  is  not  derived  solely  from  his  practice,  I 
need  hardly  say.  You  will  not  catch  him  at  his  fascinating 
diversion,  for  his  table  is  strewn  with  books  and  papers,  and 
his  playthings  are  not  noticeable  amongst  the  professional  litter. 

I  have  known  him  to  sit  for  hours  gazing  at  the  table, 
and,  once  in  his  confidence — for  there  is  a  fraternity  of 
players,  and  one  must  give  the  grip  and  prove  fellowship — he  will 
tell  you  that  he  has  shrunk  to  but  an  inch  in  height,  so  that,  to 
him,  his  desk  seems  to  be  some  three  hundred  feet  long  by  a 
hundred  feet  wide,  and  its  plateau  is  elevated  some  two  hundred 
feet  above  the  floor ;  as  high,  that  is,  as  a  church.  Assuming  that  he 
has,  by  some  miraculous  means  shrunk  to  one-fiftieth  of  his  stature, 
the  size  of  everything  visible  is,  of  course,  increased  in  a  like  propor- 
tion. His  diverting  occupation,  under  this  queer  state  of  things, 
is  to  explore  his  little  domain,  and  exist  as  well  as  is  possible. 
What  adventures  has  he  not  had !  There  was  the  terrific  com- 
bat with  a  cockroach  as  big  as  a  dragon,  which  he  finally  slew 
with  a  broken  needle !  There  was  the  dust  storm,  when  the 
care-taker  swept,  and  the  huge  snow  crystals  like  white  pie-plates, 
that  came  in  when  the  window  was  opened.  He  had  an  enormous 

29 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


difficulty  in  getting  water  from  a  glass  tumbler,  and 
he  broke  his  teeth    upon    the  crystals  of  sugar  that, 
»tt      as  a   iawverj    he     had    been     thoughtful    enough    to 
strew  Upon  the  table  for  the  benefit  of  himself  as  an 
Inchling.     I  believe  he  is  now  attempting  to  escape 
to  the  floor  by  means  of  a  spool  of  thread,  if  he  cannot  make  up 
his  mind  to  risk  a  descent  by  means  of  a   paper  parachute.     It  is 
a  world  of  his  own,  as    real  to    him  as  the   child's    toy  paradise, 
a   retreat    immune   from    the    cares    of    his   daily   life,    a 
never-tiring  playground,  with  perpetual  discoveries 
possible.  He,  if  any  one,  has  discovered  not 
only  the  art  of  playing,  but  has 
applied  the  science  as  well ! 


3° 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


Cfje 


of  jfoote 


WHAT  a  dull  world  it  would  be  if  everyone  were  modest, 
discreet  and   loyal  to  that   conformity  which  is  called 
good  taste!  if,  in  short,  there  were  no  fools  to  keep  us 
amused.      What    would    divert    us    from    the   deadly 
routine  of  seriousness  ?     What  toy  scandal  would  we  have  to  discuss 
at  dinner  ?    What  would  leaven  this  workaday  world  of  common- 
places, if  everyone  were  gifted  with   common   sense?      Is  it  not, 
when  you  stop  to  think  of  it,  a  bit  inconsiderate  to  discountenance 
buffoonery  and  to  resent  innocently  interesting  impropriety  ?    Should 
we  not  rather  encourage  eccentricity  with  what  flattering  hypocrisies 
we  may,  so  that  we  shall  never  be  at  a  loss  for  things  to  smile  at  and 
talk  about  ? 

A  fair  sprinkling  of  fools  in  the  world  is  as  enlivening  as  a 
pinch  of  salt  in  a  loaf  of  bread.  They  give  a  relish  to  life,  and  flavour 
with  a  brisk  spicery  of  nonsense  what  would  otherwise  be  oppres- 
sively flat.  Civilized  existence,  if  it  were  always  cooked  up  and 
served  to  us  by  Mrs.  Grundy  herself,  would  be  unpalatable  enough  ; 
but  luckily  her  infallible  recipes  are  not  always  carried  out,  and  a 
few  plums  and  cloves  get  into  her  pudding. 

We  may  not  care  to  play  the  part  of  public  jesters  ourselves, 
but  the  least  we  can  do  is  to  be  grateful  to  those  who  are  willing  to 
become  absurd  for  our  benefit.  Patronize  them  daintily,  therefore, 
lest  they  backslide  into  propriety ;  remember  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  enjoyment  without  ridicule.  To  make  fun  of  a  person 

31 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


to  his  face  is  a   brutal  way  of  amusing  one's  self;    be 

delicate  and  cunning,  and  keep  your  laugh  in  your 
,          ,  r.  ? 

sleeve,  lest  you  frighten   away  your  game. 

Of  JT0010  gut  there  wm  doubtless  always  be  enough  who 

are  willing  to  play  the  guy,  whether  we  encourage 
or  condemn.  The  fool  is  a  persistent  factor  in  society,  and  yet  the 
common  misconception  of  his  status  and  economic  function  is  silly 
and  unfair.  With  the  prig  and  the  crank,  the  fool  has  been  re- 
viled from  time  immemorial,  and  persecuted  out  of  all  reason. 
He  is  protected  by  no  legislation ;  your  fool  is  always  in  season, 
and  is  the  target  for  universal  contempt.  Instead  of  this  perpetual 
fusillade  of  wits,  there  should  be  a  "close  season"  for  fools  to  allow 
them  to  propagate  and  grow  fearless,  after  which  we  could  make 
game  of  them  in  safety  of  a  full  supply.  Since  he  is,  in  a  way, 
the  lubricator  of  the  wheels  of  life,  a  coiner  of  smiles,  he  should 
be  carefully  bred  to  give  the  greatest  possible  amount  of  diversion. 
He  should  be  trained  like  an  actor  that  his  best  points  may  be 
brought  out ;  he  should  be  paid  a  salary  or  kept  in  livery  to  amuse 
the  public,  with  no  need  or  excuse  for  sobriety. 

But,  until  the  fool  is  properly  appreciated  and  his  place  assured, 
we  must  put  up  with  the  amateurs  that  haunt  the  street  and  drawing- 
room.  It  is  too  much  to  hope  for  the  sight  of  a  zany  every  time  we 
go  out  doors,  but,  when  we  do  encounter  one,  what  a  ray  of  sunshine 
gleams  athwart  our  strict  fashions  —  poor  sober  dun  slaves  to  style 
and  custom  !  If  we  chance  upon  a  woman  who  dares  perpetrate  her 
own  radical  theories  of  dress,  who  combines  pink  with  red,  or  com- 
mits a  gay  indiscretion  in  millinery,  how  superbly  she  is  distin- 
guished, for  the  moment,  from  the  ruck  and  swarm  of  victims  to 
good  taste  !  She  is  at  once  an  event  and  a  portent.  The  afternoon 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


is  quaintly  illuminated  with  a  phenomenon,  and  we 

scan  with  new  interest  and  expectation  the  dull  and 

,       u  TO*  Wl&t 

sombre  throng.  "**    *"v 

How  small  a  deviation  from  the  mode,  indeed,      °*  J"<M>W 
is  necessary  to   provoke   a  revivifying  smile !    Every 
such  unconscious    laughing-stock  is   a  true   benefactor,  ministering 
to  our  sense  of  superiority.     Were  we   never  to  see  the  freaks,  we 
would   not  know  how  glorious  is  our  own  uncompromising  regu- 
larity.    Truly,  if  we  have  sufficient  conceit,  every  one  in  the  world, 
in  a  way  of  thinking,  may  be  considered  foolish  relatively  to  our  own 
criterion.      "All  the  world  is  queer  except  thee  and  me,"  said  the 
Quaker,  "  and  even  thee  is  a  little  queer !" 

Such  praise  of  fools  may  seem  extravagant  or  illogical,  but  if  it 
is  so,  it  must  be  not  because  the  fool  is  not  helpful  and  stimulating 
in  society,  but  because,  after  all,  he  is  not  so  easily  identified  as  one 
might  suppose.  Celestine  tells  me  she  never  calls  a  man  a  fool,  but 
instead  asks  him  why  he  does  so, — and  in  this  way  she  often  learns 
something.  That  is  the  most  disagreeable  trait  of  fools  ;  often,  upon 
investigation,  what  appears  to  be  genuine  nonsense  is  but  the  consist- 
ent carrying  out  of  a  clever  and  original  idea,  whose  novelty  alone 
excites  amusement.  The  fool  thus  cheats  us  of  our  due  enjoyment 
by  being  in  the  right.  It  seems  dishonest  of  a  fool  to  instruct;  it  is 
beside  the  mark,  and  outside  his  proper  sphere,  and  yet  even 
Confucius  is  said  to  have  learned  politeness  from  the  impolite.  To 
see  one's  own  faults  and  weaknesses  caricatured  spoils  the  laugh  that 
should  testify  to  the  folly. 

We  cannot  be  sure,  either,  that  the  ass  who  amuses  us  by 
his  eccentric  absurdities  may  not  eventually  cheat  us  of  the  final 
victory  by  proving  to  be  but  the  vanguard  of  a  new  custom 

/5  O 

33 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


to  which  we  or  our  children  must,  perforce,  in  time 
succumb,  and  fall  into  line  with   him  far  behind,  only 
dww     tnen  to  count  our  present  attitude   foolish  and  old- 
01  jrOOlg      fashioned.    Let  us  therefore  laugh  while  we  may,  for 
your  fool  is  but  a  chameleon  who  refuses  to  change 
colour.    What  today  is  arrant  silliness  may  tomorrow  be  good  horse- 
sense,  wherefore  it  is  wise  to  watch  fools  carefully  when  you  find 
them,  lest  the  sport  spoil  overnight,  and  you  yourself  become  ridicu- 
lous, while  the  fool  takes  your  place  as  the  amused  philosopher. 

The  word  "fad,"  they  say,  was  derived  from  the  initial  letters 
of  the  phrase  "for  a  day."  So  we,  the  followers  of  the  latest  mode 
and  mood,  are,  it  would  seem,  the  true  ephemera,  and  the  fools  who 
defy  the  local  custom  are  immortal.  The  fool  is  merely  an  anach- 
ronism. All  inventors,  most  poets,  and  some  statesmen  have  been 
honoured  with  the  title,  since  we  laugh  chiefly  at  what  we  do  not 
understand.  There  are  more  synonyms  for  "fool"  than  for  any 
other  word  in  the  language  ! 

So  we  must  take  our  chances  and  smile  at  all  and  sundry,  at 
men  of  one  idea,  hobby  riders,  cranks,  poseurs,  managing  mammas 
and  antic  youths,  blushing  brides  and  fond  parents,  bounders,  ped- 
ants, bigots  and    hens  with  their   heads  cut   off.     Laugh  at  them, 
the   character    parts  in  the  comedy  of  life,  for  the  show  is   amus- 
ing, but   be    not   resentful   if  you   find   the   privilege  of  laughing 
is   a    common   right,   and    you    in    your    turn    become 
a    victim.      For,    strange    as    it     may    seem, 
many   of  these   actors     may    be   so 
foolish    as    to    think    you 
the  fool  yourself! 


34 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


absolute 


WHEN  I  was  a  child,  I  invented  a  game  so  simple  and 
so  passive,  that  its  enjoyment  was  permitted  even  on 
the  rigorous  Sundays  of  my  youth.     Upon  a  slate  I 
ruled   vertical   columns,  and  at   the   head  of  these   I 
wrote:  "Men,  women,  boys,  girls,   babies,  horses,  dogs."     Then, 
seated  at  a  window  commanding  the  street,  I   made   note   of   the 
passers-by,  and  as  fast  as  they  appeared  in  sight  I  made  a  mark  for 
each  in  the  appropriate  column.     The   compilation    of  this    petty 
census  was  a  pleasing  pastime,  and,  moreover,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
my  categories  were  obviously  complete.     There  were,  in  my  world, 
but  men  and  women,  boys,  girls  and  babies — what  else,  indeed  ? 

But  this  primary  classification  of  sex  and  years  did  not  satisfy 
me  long,  and  I  discovered  that  my  system  must  be  amended  if  I 
would  segregate — mentally  now — the  various  types  I  encountered. 
There  were,  for  instance,  good  persons  and  bad  ones,  men  educated 
and  ignorant,  rich  and  poor,  and  I  superimposed  upon  my  first  list 
one  after  another  of  these  modifying  conditions.  But  with  a  larger 
view  of  life  these  crude  distinctions  overlapped  and  became  confused, 
and  I  saw  that  the  whole  system  was  but  a  rude  makeshift. 

Yet  until  I  could  pigeon-hole  a  new  acquaintance  in  my  own 
mind  and  put  him  with  others  of  his  kind  I  was  never  quite  satisfied. 
Up  to  a  certain  stage  in  development,  what  we  are  most  struck  with 
is  the  difference  between  persons,  but  after  the  first  intellectual  cli- 
macteric we  begin  to  see  resemblances,  invisible  before,  that  knit  men 

35 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


of  different    aspect    together;    and,    that    game    of 
synthesis  once  begun,  we  must  play  it  till  we   die. 
&D30lUtt      Every  new  acquaintance  is  an  element  of  our  expe- 
*^*          rience — a    new   fact    refuting    or    corroborating    our 
theory  of  life,  and,  though  we  often  may  put  the  case 
into    a  separate   compartment  and   label    the    specimen    "unique," 
before  long  we  shall  probably  have  to  reconsider  the  whole  collection 
and  devise  a   new  system   of  arrangement  for  the  complex  charac- 
teristics of  human  nature. 

But  what  analysis  can  we  adopt  which  shall  prove  universally 
satisfactory?  If  we  rank  men  according  to  mental,  moral  or 
spiritual  attributes,  one  quality  is  sure  to  contradict  or  affect  the 
other,  and  it  is  hard  to  decide  which  trait  is  paramount.  Friendship 
is  dependent  upon  none  of  these  things,  and  yet  in  our  affections  we 
recognize,  almost  unconsciously,  grades  and  qualities  of  attraction 
and  kinship.  Of  a  bunch  of  letters  at  our  breakfast  plate,  we  are 
sure  to  open  a  special  one  first  or  last,  as  the  expectation  of  pleasure 
may  decide.  We  accept  this  nearness,  this  intimate  relationship, 
without  reasoning ;  it  is  manifested  in  the  first  flash  of  recognition  of 
the  handwriting,  at  sight  of  a  photograph,  at  the  sound  of  a  voice  or 
a  name.  Some  are  indubitably  of  our  own  clan,  and  others,  however 
their  charm,  or  a  temporary  passion,  may  blind  us  for  a  time,  are 
foreigners,  and  speak  another  language  of  the  emotions.  There  are 
invisible  groups  of  souls,  mysteriously  related,  and  the  tie  is  indis- 
soluble. 

So  I  have  come  to  adopt  as  the  final  classification  what,  for  want 
of  a  better  term,  I  must  call  Absolute  Age — age  or  condition,  that 
is,  not  relative,  not  dependent  upon  the  year  of  one's  birth.  No 
one,  surely,  has  failed  to  observe  children  who  seem  to  be  older  than 

36 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


their   parents    in    possibility    of  development.      One 

knows  that  in  a  few  years  this  child  will  have  caught 

up  to   and  passed  his  father  or  mother  in  soundness 

of  judgment,  in  a  sense  of  the  relative  importance  of 

things,  in  the  power  to  distinguish  sham,  convention 

and  prejudice  from  things  of  vital  import.     This  child  is  older  in 

point  of  Absolute   Age.     When   his    soul    has    served   its  juvenile 

apprenticeship  in  the  world  of  the  senses  he  shall  understand  truths 

his  parents  never  knew. 

This  capacity  for  comprehending  life  does  not  seem  to  be 
dependent  upon  actual  definite  experience  with  the  world.  The 
villager  may  have  this  hidden  wisdom  as  clearly  as  the  man  who 
has  seen  and  done,  who  has  fought,  loved  and  travelled  far  and 
well.  The  mystics  hold  that  we  have  all  lived  before,  and  that 
some  have  profited  by  their  experiences  in  former  lives  and  have 
attained  a  fairer  conception  of  the  very  truth.  But,  though  this 
illustrates  what  is  meant  by  the  term  Absolute  Age,  it  is  by  no 
means  necessary  to  accept  such  an  explanation  of  the  effects  we 
perceive.  It  is  enough  that  we  can  definitely  classify  our  friends  by 
their  emotions  and  desires,  and  by  their  point  of  view  on  life.  In 
other  words,  some  are  philosophers  and  some  are  not.  And  even 
the  philosophers  are  of  varying  sects.  Some  have  a  keen,  childlike 
enthusiasm  for  the  more  obvious  forms  of  excitement,  for  all  that  is 
new  and  strange  and  marvellous,  while  others  are  incapable  of  being 
shocked,  surprised  or  embarrassed — they  have  poise,  and  prefer  the 
part  of  observer  to  that  of  actor  in  the  game  of  life. 

And  yet,  too,  there  is  a  simplicity  which  comes  from  a  greater 
Absolute  Age,  a  relish  for  real  things  that  persists  with  enthusiasm. 
It  is  by  this  simplicity  one  may  distinguish  the  cult  from  those  that 

37 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


are  merely  blast  or  worldly  wise.  The  joy  in  the 
taste  of  the  fresh  apple  under  the  tongue,  or  in  the 
abandon  of  the  child  at  play,  in  the  strength  of  youth 
and  the  grace  of  women, —  this  is  a  joy  that  does  not 
fade ;  no,  not  even  for  those  who  would  not  trouble 
to  go  to  the  window  if  the  king  rode  by !  As  a  man  can  learn 
much  by  travel  without  losing  his  capacity  for  enjoying  his  native 
town,  so  one  can  enjoy  life  intellectually  to  the  utmost  without  ever 
losing  one's  grasp  on  one's  self,  without  being  intoxicated  by  excite- 
ment or  blinded  by  egoism,  and  yet  feel  still  the  clean,  sane  joys  of 
youth  to  the  last. 

We  have  come  to  our  Absolute  Age  by  different  paths.     If  we 
are  of  the  same  status,  you  and  I,  you  may  have  learned  one  lesson 
and   I  another,  yet  the  sum  of  our  experience  is  the   same.     We 
are  akin  spiritually,  although  we  have   not  had  the  same  process  of 
development.     You,  perhaps,  have  fought  down   hate  and  I   have 
conquered   dishonesty,    but    we    are   calmer   and   wiser,   we    think, 
than   those  whom  we  smile  at  quietly  when  we  view  their  eager- 
ness for   things    that   no   longer  concern   us.     We  recognize,  too, 
that  there  are  others  to  whose  attainments  our  own  powers 
are  infantile.    But  in  either  case  the  superiority  is 
neither  mental  nor  moral  nor  spiritual — 
it    is    that    mysterious   inherent 
quality  we  call  "caste." 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


Cfje  Manual  Blessing 


SURELY  if  there  is  one  sharp,  active  sensation  that,  in  this 
changeful  life  of  ours,  we  never  tire  of,  never  outgrow,  it  is 
in  the  satisfaction  of  creative  manual  work.    There  is  a  con- 
servation of  pleasure  as  there  is  a  conservation  of  energy, 
and  our  taste  is  being  continually  transmuted  and  evolved.     One  by 
one  we  outlive  the  joys  of  youth,  the  delights  of  physical  exercise, 
the  zest  of  travel,  the  beatitude  of  emotion,  the  singing  raptures  of 
love,  passing  from  each  to  a  more  mature  appeal,  a  more  refined  ap- 
petite, a  subtler  demand  of  the  intellect  or  of  the  spirit.     The  famil- 
iar games  lose  their  savour,  the  dance  gives  way  to  the  drama,  travel 
to  the  calmer  investigation  of  homely  miracles.     We  tire  of  seeing 
and  begin  to  read,  feasting  peacefully  at  the  banquet  of  the  arts  that 
other  men  have  spread.     This  is,  for  many  of  us,  what  age  means — 
a  giving  up  of  active  for  passive  pleasures  when  the  old  games  lose 
their  charm. 

But  the  joy  of  creation  does  not  fade,  for  in  that  lies  our  divin- 
ity and  our  claim  to  eternity.  Each  new  product  arouses  the  same 
thrill,  the  same  spiritual  excitement,  the  same  pride  of  victory,  and 
yet,  strangely  enough,  though  we  think  we  work  only  for  the  final 
notch  of  accomplishment,  it  is  not  the  completion  but  the  construc- 
tion that  holds  us  entranced.  Not  the  last  stroke,  but  every  stroke 
brings  victory!  It  is  like  the  climbing  of  a  mountain.  Do  we  en- 
dure the  toil  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  view  at  the  summit?  No, 
but  for  the  primitive  passion  of  conflict,  the  inch-by-inch  fight 

39 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


against  odds,  the  heaping  of  endeavour  on  endeavour, 
the  continual  measuring  of  what  has  been  done  with 
9panual      what   remains  to  do.     The  finishing   climax   is    but 
25le00ing     the  exclamation  point  at  the  end  of  the  sentence — 
most  of  the    sensation   has  been  used  up  before  we 
come  to  the  full  stop,  and  that  point  serves  but  to  sum  up  our  emo- 
tion in  a  visible  emblem  of  success. 

Many  of  us  believe  we  are  debarred  from  the  exercise  of  this 
divine  birthright,  the  joy  of  creation.  We  have  neither  talent  nor 
genius — not  even  that  variety  which  consists  in  the  ability  to  take 
infinite  pains.  Are  we  not  mistaken  in  this?  I  think  we  may  each 
have  our  share  of  the  immortal  stimulus. 

To  understand  this,  we  must  go  back  and  back  in  the  history 
of  the  race,  and  there  we  shall  find  that  this  satisfaction,  this  sane 
and  virile  delight  in  construction,  was  possible  to  the  meanest  mem- 
ber of  the  tribe.  Its  enjoyment  came  chiefly  in  the  exercise  of  a  la- 
borious persistency  in  little  things.  The  combination  or  addition  of 
the  simplest  elements  achieved  a  positive  pleasurable  result.  The 
neolithic  man  chipped  and  chipped  at  his  flint  until  the  arrow-head 
was  perfected,  and  his  joy,  had  he  been  able  to  analyze  it,  was  not 
so  much  in  the  last  stroke  as  in  every  stroke.  Not  so  much  that 
he  had  himself  with  his  own  hands  made  something,  as  that  he  had 
been  making  something  of  use  and  beauty,  and  the  possibility  of  that 
joy  abiding  with  him  as  long  as  he  lived.  The  makers  of  ancient 
pottery  repeated  the  same  shapes  and  designs,  or,  if  their  fancy  soared, 
dared  new  inventions,  but  the  satisfaction  was  in  the  doing.  The 
carvers  and  joiners  of  the  Middle  Ages  worked  as  amateurs  in  cot- 
tage and  hovel,  and  in  their  work  lay  their  content ;  no  tyranny  could 
wrest  from  them  this  well-spring  of  pleasure.  Old  age  could  but 

40 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


weaken  the  hand ;  I  doubt  if  it  could  tame  the  im- 
memorial joy  of  creation. 

We  cannot  all  be  professional  mechanics,  for  the 
division  of  labour  has  cast  our  lot  more  and  more  with 
the  workers  in  intellectual  pursuits.     But  we  might 
make  handicraft  an  avocation,  if  not  a  vocation,  and  that  regimen 
would  help  our  digestion,  perhaps,  more  than  pepsin  or  a  course  of 
the  German  baths.     Were  I  a  physician  I  should  often  recommend 
the  craft  cure — a  panacea  for  dyspepsia,  ennui  and  nostalgia. 

Here  is  my  modern  health  resort,  my  sanitorium  for  these  most 
desperate  of  diseases ;  a  little  hamlet  of  shops  and  tents  on  the  foot- 
hills of  the  Coast  Range  in  California,  where  as  you  work  you  can 
look  across  a  green  valley  to  the  blue  Pacific.  Here  in  this  new 
land  nature  calls  fondly  to  your  soul,  and  you  may  turn  to  the  primi- 
tive delights  of  living  and  taste  the  tang  of  the  dawn  of  civilization, 
fresh  and  wholesome  as  a  wild  berry. 

Here,  squatting  on  the  bare  sun-parched  ground,  with  an  In- 
dian blanket  over  his  shoulders,  is  a  corpulent  banker  with  a  flint 
hammer  battering  a  water-worn  boulder.  Thus,  less  than  a  hundred 
years  ago,  the  Temecula  Indians  hollowed  out  their  stone  mortars  on 
this  very  mesa,  fhus  they  spent  happy  days,  slept  like  bears,  and 
were  up  with  the  birds,  each  morn  a  day  younger  than  yesterday.  In 
this  lodge  of  deerskins,  where  the  ground  is  spread  with  yellow  pop- 
pies, sits  an  ex-secretary  of  legation,  who  has  known  everything,  seen 
everything,  done  everything  but  this — to  cut  with  a  knife  of  shell 
strange  patterns  upon  a  circular  horn  gorget.  Finished,  his  wife 
might  wear  it  with  pride  at  the  Court  of  St.  James,  yet  it  is  but  the 
reproduction  of  a  prehistoric  ornament,  its  figures  smeared  with 
ochre,  cobalt  and  vermilion,  and  inlaid  with  lumps  of  virgin  copper 

41 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


by  the  mound-builders  of  the  Mississippi  Valley. 
In  this  open  shelter  of  bamboo,  a  trysting-place 
for  meadow-larks  and  song-sparrows,  lies  stretched 
Sirs 3 ing  upon  the  ground  an  East  India  warehouseman,  all  his 
gout  and  lumbago  forgotten  in  the  rapturous  delight 
of  printing  a  pattern  of  checquered  stripes  with  a  carved  wooden 
block  upon  a  sheet  of  tapa  which  he  himself — unaided,  mind  you — 
has  pounded  from  the  fibrous  bark  of  the  paper  mulberry.  His 
strenuous  daughter,  once  world-worn  and  frozen,  has  left  Nietsche, 
Brahms,  and  the  cult  of  the  symbolists,  to  sit  cross-legged  and 
weave  the  woolly  zigzags  of  a  Navajo  blanket.  It  is  the  first  thing 
she  has  made  with  her  ten  fingers  since  she  baked  mud  pies  in  the 
sun !  Had  she  a  scrap  of  mirror  in  her  bungalow  she  could  now 
face  it  without  mortification.  An  open-air  hand-loom  is  good  for 
the  complexion. 

But  you  need  not  journey  to  California.     Rather  make  a  pil- 
grimage to  your  own  south  attic.     If  you  do  but  construct  cardboard 
model  houses  with  isinglass  windows  in  your  breakfast-room,  you 
will  perhaps  find  that  more  diverting  than  collecting  cameos  or  first 
editions.     If  you  can  only  compile  a  concordance  to  Alice  in  Won- 
derland you  may  achieve  a  hygienic   and   rejuvenative  distraction. 
Can  you  cut,  stamp,  gild,  paint,  lacquer  and  emboss  a  leather  belt  ? 
Can   you  hammer  jewelry  out   of  soft  virgin  silver?       No  ?     But 
you   could,  though,    if   you    tried!     Can  you  forget    the  imposi- 
tions of  convention  in  the  rapt  glow  of  pride  in  sawing 
and  nailing  together  a  wooden  box  ?     No  matter 
how  small  it  might  be,  how  leaky  of  joint 
or  loose  of  cover,  it  would  hold 
all    your    worries ! 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


Cije  Bescrtrti 


A  FRIEND  of  mine  is  curiously  hampered  by  a  limitation 
precluding  him  from  association  with  any  one  conversant 
with  the  details  of  the  manufacture  of  cold-drawn  wire. 
To  show  that  this  self-imposed  abstinence  may  indicate 
a  most  charming  devotion  to  an  ideal,  rarely  shown  by  the  common- 
place, is   the  object  of  this  thesis,  and  that,  too,  despite  the  fact 
that  an  indiscriminating  extension  of  the  same  principle  would  lead 
the  radical  to  eschew  the  society  of  most  of  his  acquaintances,  as 
well  as  bar  out  the  whole  domain  of  didactic  literature. 

When  the  day  is  done,  and  that  entrancing  hour  is  come  for 
which  some  spend  many  of  their  waking  hours  in  anticipation, 
to  those  blessed  with  fancy,  the  curtain  of  the  dark  arises,  and  within 
the  theatre  of  the  Night  are  played  strange  comedies.  To  a  select 
performance  I  invite  all  uninitiated  who  have  never  enjoyed  the 
drama  of  the  Deserted  Island — the  perfect  and  satisfactory  employ- 
ment for  the  minutes  that  elapse  after  retiring  and  before  the  anchor 
is  weighed  and  the  voyage  begun  upon  the  Sea  of  Dreams. 

There  are  undoubtedly  more  than  I  am  aware  of  who  are  happy 
enough  to  maintain  deserted  islands  of  their  own — many  more, 
perhaps,  than  would  confess  to  the  possession.  To  some  the  history 
may  be  well  under  way ;  they  have  long  since  discovered  their  island, 
and  many  improvements  have  already  been  successfully  completed. 
Others,  more  adventurous,  handicapped  by  stricter  limitations  and 
more  meagre  outfit,  are  still  struggling  with  the  primal  demands  of 

43 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


food  and  shelter.  But  to  those  whose  imaginations 
have  never  put  so  far  out  to  sea,  and  would  welcome 
tms  modest  diversion,  I  advise  an  expedition  of 
discovery  and  exploration  this  very  night.  You  have 
but  to  go  to  bed,  close  your  eyes,  and  after  a  few 
preliminaries  you  are  there ! 

Authorities  differ  as  to  the  allowable  equipment  for  the  occu- 
pancy of  the  sequestered  territory.  I  myself  hold  that  it  is 
manifestly  unfair  to  be  provided  with  tools  of  any  kind ;  to  have  a 
knife,  now,  I  would  call  cheating.  Surely  the  only  legitimate 
beginning  is  to  be  vomited  upon  the  beach  stark  naked  from  the  sea, 
after  some  fearsome  shipwreck  in  mid-ocean.  Then,  after  years  of 
occupancy,  a  man  might  taste  the  pride  of  his  own  resources, 
unfettered  by  any  legacy  inherited  from  civilization.  Settle  this  point 
as  you  may,  when  the  conditions  of  the  game  are  once  understood, 
the  whole  history  of  Science  is  to  be  re-enacted. 

I  have  a  friend  who  arrived  upon  the  scene  in  an  open  boat 
containing  a  keg  of  water,  a  crowbar,  a  pruning-knife,  a  red  silk 
handkerchief  and  a  woman's  petticoat ;  and  with  these  promiscuous 
accessories  has,  in  the  course  of  years,  transformed  the  place,  which 
now  boasts  a  stone  castle,  entirely  inhabitable.  His  island  is  about 
two  miles  long  and  a  half-mile  wide — much  too  narrow  for  comfort, 
I  assert;  the  proportions  should  be  about  five  miles  by  three,  with 
one  dominant  hill  from  which  the  whole  territory  may  be  surveyed. 
But  the  owner  of  the  other  island — he  of  the  cold-drawn  wire — 
boldly  asserts  his  right  to  a  half-dozen  labourers,  presumably 
natives,  and  with  this  force  at  his  disposal. he  has  done  wonders  with 
his  fief.  Glass  has  been  manufactured,  fabrics  woven,  ore  smelted 
and  fine  roads  constructed,  so  that  there  now  remains  nothing  to  be 

44 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


desired   but    bicycles    upon  which  he  and  his   slaves 

may  traverse  the  highways.     But  in  vain  his  unskilled 

assistants  look  to  him  for  advice ;  rack  his  wits  as  he 

may,  he   can  devise   no   adequate  system  of  making        30Ian& 

cold-drawn  wire,  and    he  is    beginning  to   lose  caste 

with  his  followers. 

Now  at  first  sight  one  might  think  it  necessary  for  him  only  to 
consult  an  encyclopedia,  or  to  visit  on  iron  mill,  yet  this  course  is 
strictly  barred  out  by  the  rules  of  the  game,  which  compels  one  to  use 
only  such  information  as  comes  naturally  to  hand — for  one  is  likely  to 
be  cast  ashore  upon  a  desert  island  at  any  moment,  and  it  is  then  too 
late  for  the  research  and  education  that  has  been  before  neglected. 
With  any  ingenious  fellow  who  has  his  own  amateur  ideas  on  the 
subject,  one  may,  of  course,  talk  freely  ;  for  he  may  represent  one  of 
the  more  intelligent  of  the  natives ;  but  all  they  who  really  know 
whereof  they  speak  are  to  be  avoided.  So  the  problem  of  the  cold- 
drawn  wire  is  still  unsolved. 

I  know  of  an  artist,  who,  free  on  this  enchanted  spot,  has 
turned  his  energies  to  those  diverting  pursuits  for  which  his  studio 
leaves  no  time,  and  he  builds  gigantic  rock  mosaics  on  the  cliffs, 
selecting  from  the  many  coloured  boulders  on  the  beach.  Luxuries 
are  his  only  necessities  even  in  his  daily  life,  and  the  enormity  of  his 
trifling  on  this  holiday  playground  is  a  thing  to  wonder  at.  His  art, 
so  used  to  a  censorship  of  Nature,  in  his  professional  mimicries,  here 
goes  boldly  forth  and  so  mends,  prunes  and  patches  the  aspect  of 
his  island,  that  the  place  is  now,  he  says,  absolutely  perfect;  a  con- 
summation not  altogether  discreditable  to  a  nude,  near-sighted  man, 
whose  eye-glasses  were  washed  off  before  he  arrived  on  the  spot ! 

But,  taking  the  situation  seriously,  what  will  he  be  in  the  years 

45 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


to  come?    By  what  gradations  shall  the  lonely  artist 
sink  to  low  and  lower  levels,  abandoned  by  the  stimulus 
°f  th6  outer  world,  the  need  for  advance,  and  the  strug- 
30  land       gle  for   recognition  ?     How  soon  would  he  lose  the 
desire  to  render,  in  the  medium  at  hand,  the  lovely 
forms  of  nature  about  him,  the  subtle  tones  of  the  earth  and  air, 
lapsing  by  stages  into  ever  cruder  forms  of  expression,  till  the  whole 
history  of  his  development  had  been  reversed,  and  he  became  content 
with  rude  squares,  triangles  and  circles  for  his  patterns,  the  barbarous 
effigies  of  the  human  form,  and  the  primary  colours  that  satisfy  the 
savage  ? 

And  the  sense  of  humour,  too  —  that  universal  solvent  of  all  our 
miseries,  the  oil  that  lubricates  the  cumbrous  machinery  of  life  —  how 
soon  would  that  go?  Is  it  not,  in  the  last  analysis,  dependent  upon 
the  by-play  of  the  social  relationship  of  men?  The  inconsistencies 
of  our  fellows  must  be  first  noticed  before  we  can  get  the  reflected 
light  of  ridicule  upon  our  own  grotesque  actions.  It  would  soon  be 
lost  in  such  a  sojourn,  our  impatience  would  have  no  foil,  we  would 
take  ourselves  more  and  more  seriously  until  the  end  came  upon 
that  day  when  we  had  at  last  forgotten  how  to  laugh. 

But,  after  all,  as  this  text  of  the  hypothetical  deserted  island  is 
better  fitted  for  a  romance  than  for  a  sermon,  we  may  leave  such 
forebodings  and  trace  out  only  the  rising  curve  of  improvement. 
And  so,  too,  interesting  as  it  might  be  to  experience,  we  may  leave 
aside  the  moral  speculations  incident  to  the  discussion  of  the  case 
where  the  place  becomes  occupied  by  a  man  and  a  woman.  The  pos- 
sibilities of  a  shipwreck  in  company  are  not  for  such  a  brief  memoir 
as  this  ;  they  offer  consideration  too  intimate  for  these  discreet  pages, 
and  are  best  left  to  the  exclusion  of  a  private  audience. 


46 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


But  choose  your  company  carefully,  I  entreat  you, 
if  you  are  not  soberly  minded  to  be  shipwrecked  alone. 
I  know  of  persons  with  whom,  were  I  cast  ashore,  there 
could  be  no  end  not   tragic,  albeit  these  are  highly        30latt& 
respectable    and  praiseworthy  individuals,  who  never 
did  any  harm  except  in  that  trick  of  manner  by  which  we  recog- 
nize the  bore.     I  am  often  inclined  to  test  the  merits  of  others  by 
mentally  permitting  them  a  short  visit  to  my  island,  but  the  hazard 
is   too  great,  and  the  thought  of  the  possibility  of  their  footprints 
upon  the  sand  unnerves  me. 

Yet,  to  a  distant  islet  of  this  fantastic  archipelago  I  seriously 
consider  consigning  certain  impossible  acquaintances,  absolutely 
intolerable  personalities,  whose  probable  fate,  forced  to  endure  each 
other's  society,  interests  me  beyond  words.  Upon  one  side  of  this 
far-away  retreat  rises  a  steep  cliff  overhanging  the  sea,  and  here  I 
behold  in  imagination  one  after  another  of  these  marooned  unfortu- 
nates pushed  headlong  over  the  slope,  as,  unable  to  support  the 
society  of  his  companions,  each  has  in  turn,  by  some  stratagem,  lured 
his  hated  accomplice  in  misery  to  the  summit  of  the  bluff. 

But  of  one  island  I  have  not  yet  spoken.  I  can  get  no  descrip- 
tion of  it  save  that  it  lies  sleeping  in  the  summer  sun,  washed  by 
the  sapphire  tides  and  fanned  by  the  cool  south  winds,  its  olive 
slopes  rising  softly  from  the  beach,  marked  by  a  grove  of  fruit  trees 
at  the  crest.  More  the  owner  will  not  tell,  for  Celestine  says  there 

is  no  use  for  a  deserted  island  after  it  is  charted ;  but  by 
these  signs  I  shall  know  the  place,  and  my  trees 
are    felled    and   my   sails    are    plaited 
that  shall  yet  bear  me  over  to- 
wards the  southwest! 

47 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


Cfje  l^ense  of  Rumour 


MUCH  as  one   may  look  through  the    small    end  of  a 
telescope  and  find  an  unique  and  intrinsic  charm  in  the 
spectacle  there  offered,  so  to  certain  eyes  the  whole  vis- 
ible universe  is  humorous.    From  the  apparition  of  this 
dignified  little  ball,  rolling  soberly  through  the  starry  field  of  the 
firmament,  to  the  unwarrantable  gravity  of  a  neighbour's  straw  hat, 
macrocosm  and  microcosm  may  minister  to  the  merriment  of  man. 
There  is  more  in  heaven  and  earth  than  is  dreamed  of  in  the  philos- 
ophy of  the  Realist. 

It  is  one  attribute  of  a  man  of  parts  that  he  shall  have,  in  his 
mental  vision,  what  corresponds  to  the  "accommodation"  of  his  eye, 
a  flexibility  of  observation  that  enables  him  to  adapt  his  mind  to  the 
focus  of  humour.  Myopia  and  strabismus  we  know;  the  dullard 
can  point  their  analogies  in  the  mental  optics,  but  for  this  other 
misunderstood  function  we  have  no  name ;  and  yet,  failing  that,  we 
have  dignified  it  as  a  sense  apart — the  sense  of  humour.  But  no 
form  of  lens  has  been  discovered  to  correct  its  aberration  and  trans- 
fer the  message  in  pleasurable  terms  to  the  lagging  brain ;  and,  unless 
we  attempt  hypnotism  as  a  last  resort,  the  prosiest  must  go  purblind 
for  life,  missing  all  but  the  baldest  jokes  of  existence. 

Is  it  not  significant,  that  from  the  ancient  terminology  of  leech- 
craft,  this  word  "humour"  has  survived  in  modern  medicine,  to  be 
applied  only  to  the  vitreous  fluid  of  the  eye?  For  humour  is  the 
medium  through  which  all  the  phenomena  of  human  intercourse  may 


48 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


be  witnessed,  and  for  those  normal  minds  that  possess 
it,  tints  this  world  with  a  rare  colour — like  that  of  the 
mysterious  ultra-violet  rays  of  the  spectrum.     And     g?ni0t  Of 
indeed,  to  push  further  into  modern  science  and  spec-      Rumour 
ulation,  perhaps  this  ray  does  not  undulate,  but  shoots 
forth  undeviating  as  Truth  itself,  like  that  from  the  Cathode  Pole. 
Or,  does  it  not  strike  our  mental  retina  from  some  secret  Fourth 
Direction  ? 

But  this  is  mere  verbiage ;  similes,  flattering  to  the  elect,  but 
unconvincing  to  the  uninitiate.  Yet,  as  I  am  resolved  that  humour 
is  essentially  a  point  of  view,  I  would  have  a  try  at  proselytizing  for 
the  doctrine.  For  here  is  a  religion  ready  made  to  my  hand ;  I  have 
but  to  raise  my  voice  and  become  its  prophet.  The  seeds  are  all 
sown,  the  Fraternity  broods,  hidden  in  hidden  Chapters,  guarding 
the  Grand  Hailing  Sign;  who  knows  but  that  a  spark  might  not 
touch  off  this  seasoned  fuel,  and  the  flame  carry  everything  before  it. 
O  my  readers,  I  give  you  the  Philosophy  of  Mirth,  the  Cult  of 
Laughter !  Yet  it  is  an  esoteric  faith,  mind  you,  unattainable  by 
the  multitude.  Not  of  the  "Te-he!  Papa's  dead!"  school,  nor  of 
the  giggling  punster's  are  its  devotees.  No  comic  weekly  shall  be  its 
organ.  It  must  be  hymned  not  by  the  hoarse  guffaw,  but  in  the 
quiet  inward  smile  —  and  for  its  ritual,  I  submit  the  invisible  humour 
of  the  Commonplace.  O  Paradox! 

Brethren,  from  this  flimsy  pulpit,  I  assert  with  sincerity,  that 
everything  on  two  legs  (and  most  on  four)  sleeping  or  awake,  bow- 
legged  or  knock-kneed,  has  its  humorous  aspect.  The  curtain  never 
falls  on  the  diversion.  You  will  tell  me,  no  doubt,  that  here  I  ride 
too  hard.  Adam,  you  will  say  with  reason,  set  aside  in  the  beginning 
certain  animals  for  our  perpetual  amusement — to  wit:  the  goose,  the 

49 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


monkey,  the  ostrich,  the  kangaroo,  and,  as  a  sublime 
afterthought — symbol  of  the  Eternal  Feminine — the 
Of  hen.  Civilization,  you  may  admit,  has  added  to  these 
the  goat — but,  save  in  rare  moods  of  insanity,  as  when 
the  puppy  pursues  the  mad  orbit  of  his  tail,  the  sight 
of  only  the  aforesaid  beasts  makes  for  risibility.  The  cat,  you  will 
say,  is  never  ridiculous.  But  here  again  we  must  hark  back  to  the 
major  premise,  unrecognized  though  it  be  by  the  science  of  ^Esthetic, 
that  humour  lies  in  the  point  of  view.  If  I  could  prove  it  by  mere 
iteration  it  would  go  without  further  saying  that  it  is  essentially  sub- 
jective rather  than  objective.  Surely  there  is  no  humour  in  insensate 
nature,  as  there  is  little  enough  in  Art  and  Music.  The  bees,  the 
trees,  the  fountains  and  the  mountains  take  themselves  seriously 
enough,  and  though,  according  to  the  minor  poets,  the  fields  and  the 
brooks  are  at  times  moved  to  laughter,  it  is  from  a  vegetable,  point- 
less joy  of  life.  Through  the  human  wit  alone,  and  that  too  rarely, 
the  rays  of  thought  are  refracted  in  the  angle  of  mirth,  and  split  into 
whimsical  rays  of  complementary  sensations  and  contrasts. 

When  we  lay  off  the  mantle  of  seriousness  and  relax  the  flexors 
and  extensors,  if  we  are  well  fed,  healthy,  and  of  a  peaceful  mood 
and  capable  of  indolence,  men  and  women,  and  even  we  ourselves, 
should  become  to  our  view  players  on  the  stage  of  life.  And  what 
then  is  comedy  but  tragedy  seen  backward  or  downside-up  ?  It  is 
the  negative  or  corollary  of  what  is  vital  in  this  great  game  of  life. 
The  custom  has  been,  however,  to  give  it  a  place  apart  and  unrelated 
to  the  .higher  unities,  as  the  newspapers  assign  their  witticisms  to  iso- 
lated columns.  Rather  is  it  the  subtle  polarity  induced  by  graver 
thought,  the  reading  between  the  lines  of  the  page.  And  as,  to  the 
vigorous  intellect,  rest  does  not  come  through  inactivity  so  much  as 

5° 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


by  a  change  of  occupation,  the  happy  humourist  is 
refreshed  by  the  solace  of  impersonality. 

For,  to  the  initiate,  his  own  inconsistencies  and  &tn$t  of 
indiscretions  are  no  less  diverting  than  those  of  his 
associates,  and  should  frequently  give  rise  to  emotions 
that  impel  him  to  hurry  into  a  corner  and  scream  aloud  with  mirth. 
It  is  ever  the  situation  that  is  absurd,  and  never  the  victim ;  and  in 
this  lies  the  secret  of  his  ability  to  appreciate  a  farce  of  which  he 
himself  is  the  hero.  He  must  disincarnate  himself  as  the  whim  blows, 
and  hang  in  the  air,  a  god  for  the  time,  gazing  with  amusement  at  the 
play  of  his  own  ridiculous  failures.  In  some  such  way,  perhaps,  do 
the  curious  turn  over  the  patterned  fabric,  to  discover,  on  the  reverse, 
the  threads  and  stitches  that  explain  the  construction  of  the  design. 
This  faculty,  then,  gives  one  the  stamp  of  caste  by  which  one 
may  know  his  brethren  the  world  over,  an  Order  of  whose  very  exist- 
ence many  shall  never  be  aware,  till,  in  some  after  life,  some  grinning 
god  conducts  them  to  the  verge  of  the  heavens,  and,  leaning  over  a 
cloud,  bids  them  behold  the  spectacle  of  this  little  planet  swarming 
with  its  absurdly  near-sighted  denizens. 

Oh6  la  Renaissance!  for  this  is  to  be  the  Age  of  Humour.    We 
travail  for  the  blithe  rebirth  of  joy  into  the  world.     The  Decadence, 
with  its  morbid  personalities  and  accursed  analysis  of  exotic  emotion, 
is  over,  please  God ;  yet  we  may  adopt  its  methods  and  refine  the  sim- 
plicity of  primary  impulse,  thus  increasing  the  whole  sum  of  pleas- 
ure  with    the   delicate  nuances   that   amplify  the  waves 
of    feeling.     Hark,    O    my    reader!      Do    you 
not    hear  them,  rising    like   overtones 
and  turning  the  melody  into 
a  divine    harmony? 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


Cije  <§ame  of  Correspondence 


THE  receipt  of  a  letter  is  no  longer  the  event  it  was  in 
the  old  stage-coach  days;  railways  and  the  penny  postage 
have   robbed    it    of  all    excitement.     One    expects  now 
one's    little    pile    of  white,    blue   and    green    envelopes 
beside  one's  plate  at  breakfast,  along  with  one's   toast  and  coffee, 
and  one  tastes  its  contents  as  one  opens  the  matutinal  egg.     We 
have  forgotten  how  to  write  interesting  letters  as  we  have  forgotten 
how  to  fold  and    wafer    a    sheet    of  foolscap    or  sharpen  a   quill. 
Some  of  our  missives  are  not  even  worth  a  cursory  glance,  many 
by  no  means  deserve  an  answer,  and  most  are  speedily  forgotten 
in  the  columns  of  the  morning  journal. 

Yet,  at  times,  on  red-letter  days,  we  find  one  amongst  the 
number  which  demands  epicurean  perusal ;  it  is  not  to  be  ripped 
open  and  devoured  in  haste,  it  insists  on  privacy  and  attention. 
This  has  a  flavour  which  the  salt  of  silence  alone  can  bring  out; 
a  dash  of  interruption  destroys  its  exquisite  delicacy.  More  than 
this,  it  must  be  answered  while  it  is  still  fresh  and  sparkling,  after 
which,  if  it  be  of  the  true  vintage,  it  can  afford  still  another  sip 
to  inspire  your  postscript. 

To  your  room  then  with  this,  and  lock  the  door,  or  else  save 
it  for  a  more  impregnable  leisure.  Open  it  daintily  and  entertain 
it  with  distinction  and  respect ;  efface  any  previous  mood  and  hold 
yourself  passive  to  its  enchantment.  It  is  no  love  message,  and 
need  depend  upon  no  excited  interest  in  the  writer  for  its  reception, 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


for  it  has  an  intrinsic  merit;  it  is  the  work  of  an  artist; 
it  is  a  fascinating  move  on  the  chess-board  of  the 
most  alluring,  most  accessible  game  in  the  world.  of  C0tt£* 

Though  the  fire  of  such  a  letter  need  have  gpondtttC* 
neither  the  artificiality  of  flirtation  nor  the  intensity 
of  love,  yet  it  must  both  light  and  warm  the  reader.  It  is  not 
valuable  for  the  news  it  brings,  for  if  it  be  a  work  of  art  the  tidings 
it  bears  are  not  so  important  as  the  telling  of  them.  It  must  be 
sincere  and  alive,  revealing  and  confessing,  a  letter  more  from  the 
writer  than  to  the  reader,  as  if  it  were  written  in  face  of  a  mirror 
rather  than  before  the  photograph  of  the  receiver ;  and  yet  the  com- 
munication must  be  spelled  in  the  cypher  of  your  friendship,  to 
which  only  you  have  the  key.  We  have  our  separate  languages, 
each  with  the  other,  and  there  are  emotions  we  cannot  duplicate. 
This  missive  is  for  you,  and  for  you  only,  or  it  ranks  with  a  business 
communication.  It  is  minted  thought,  invested,  put  out  at  loan  for 
a  time,  bringing  back  interest  to  stimulate  new  speculations.  There 
are  no  superfluous  words,  for  the  master  strikes  a  clean  sharp  blow, 
forging  his  mood  all  of  a  single  piece,  welding  your  whim  to  his,  and, 
fusing  his  sentences,  there  glows  a  spirit,  a  quality  of  style  that  bears 
no  affectation ;  it  must  not,  of  all  things,  become  literary,  it  must  be 
direct,  not  showing  signs  of  operose  polish.  It  must  be  writ  in  the 
native  dialect  of  the  heart. 

If  it  be  a  risk  to  write  frankly,  it  is  one  that  gains  interest  in 
the  same  proportion ;  it  makes  the  game  the  better  sport.  But  after 
all,  how  many  letters,  so  fearfully  burned,  so  carefully  hid  away,  but 
what,  in  after  years,  would  seem  innocuous  ?  You  are  seduced  by 
the  moment,  and  your  mood  seems,  and  impulses  seem,  dangerous, 
incendiary.  You  grow  perfervid  in  your  indiscretion,  not  knowing 

53 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


that   the  whole  world   is  stirred  by  the   same  reek- 
IE!)*  C5amt    lessness,  and  that  each  one  is  profoundly  bored  by 
Of   Cottl'     all  save  his  own  yearnings.     Not  many  of  our  epistles 
0pOtldttlCl     will  bear  the  test  of  print  on  their  own  merit,  expur- 
gate them   as  you  will;   you  need  only  fear,  rather, 
that  the  letter  will  grow  dull  even  before  it  reaches  its  destination. 
The  best  of  them,  moreover,  are  written  in  sympathetic  ink,  and 
unless  your  correspondent  has  the  proper  reagent  at  hand,  the  sheets 
will  be  empty  or  incomprehensible  even  to  him.     Answer  speedily 
as  you  may,  too,  it  will  be  hard  to  overtake  your  correspondent's 
mood ;  he  has  overburdened  his  mind,  precipitated  the  solution,  and 
is  off  to  another  experiment  by  the  time  his  stamp  is  affixed.     But 
you  must  do  your  best  in  return ;  reflect  enough  of  his  ray  to  show 
him  he  has  shot  straight,  and  then  flash  your  own  colour  back. 

There  are  virtues  of  omission  and  commission.  It  is  not 
enough  to  answer  questions;  one  must  not  add  the  active  annoy- 
ance of  apology  to  the  passive  offense  of  neglect.  One  must  not 
hint  at  things  untellable;  one  must  give  the  crisp  satisfaction  of 
confidences  wholly  shared.  Who  has  not  received  that  dash  of  fem- 
inine inconsequence  in  the  sentence,  "  I  have  just  written  you  two 
long  letters,  and  have  torn  them  both  up"?  What  letter  could 
make  up  for  such  an  exasperation  ?  Your  master  letter-writer 
does  not  fear  to  stop  when  he  is  done,  either,  and  a  blank  page 
at  the  end  of  the  folio  does  not  threaten  his  conscience. 

If  one  has  not  the  commonplace  view  of  things,  and  escapes 
the  obvious,  it  matters  little  whether  one  uses  the  telescope  or  the 
microscope.  One  may  deal  with  the  abstract  or  concrete,  discuss 
philosophy  and  systems,  or  gild  homely  little  common  things  till 
they  shine  and  twinkle  with  joy.  Indeed,  the  perfect  letter- writer 

54 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


must  do  both,  and  change   from    the  intensely  sub- 
jective to  the  intensely  objective  point  of  view.     He 
must,  as  it  were,  look  you  in  the  eye  and  hold  you     pf 
by  the  hand.    Two  masters  whose  letters  have  recently     gponlif  ncc 
been  printed  may  illustrate  these  two  different  phases  of 
expression,  though  each  could  do  both  as  well.     And  this  first,  from 
Browning's  love  letters,  describes  what  the  perfect  letter  should  be : 

"  I  persisted  in  not  reading  my  letter  in  the  presence  of  my  friend.  .  .  . 
I  kept  the  letter  in  my  hand,  and  only  read  it  with  those  sapient  ends  of  the 
fingers  which  the  mesmerists  make  so  much  ado  about,  and  which  really  did 
seem  to  touch  a  little  of  what  was  inside.  Not  all,  however,  happily  for  me  ! 
or  my  friend  would  have  seen  in  my  eyes  what  they  did  not  see." 

To  this,  the  twittering,  delightful    familiarities  of  Stevenson: 

"  Two  Sundays  ago  the  sad  word  was  brought  that  the  sow  was  out 
again  ;  this  time  she  had  brought  another  in  her  flight.  Moors  and  I  and 
Fanny  were  strolling  up  to  the  garden,  and  there  by  the  waterside  we  saw 
the  black  sow  looking  guilty.  It  seemed  to  me  beyond  words  ;  but  Fanny's 
cri  du  cccur  was  delicious.  '  G-r-r  ! '  she  cried  ;  «  nobody  loves  you  ! '  ' 

It  was  the  same    art   in    big  and   little,  for  each  stripped  off 
pretense  and  boldly  revealed  his  moment's  personality. 

And  yet,  and  yet,  a  letter  does  not  depend  upon  any  artistic 
quality  or  glib  facility  with  words,  for  its  interest.     The  one  test  of 
a  letter  is  that  it  must  bring  the  writer  close  to  your  side.     You 
must  fasten  your  mood  on  me,  so  that   I  shall  be   you  for  hours 
afterward.    It  sounds    easy    enough,  but    it    is    the    most    difficult 
thing  in  the  world,  to  be  one's  self.     "  I   long  for  you,  I  long  for 
you  so  much  that  I  thank  God  upon  my  knees   that  you 
are  not  here  ! "    There,  now,  is  a  letter  that  prom- 
ises well,  but  I  dare  not  quote  more  of 
it,  for  the  subject  must  be  seen 
from    another   side. 

55 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


CI)e  Caste  of  tfje  articulate 


FAIR  or  unfair  though  it  be,  I  have  come  to  accept  a  letter 
as  the  final  test  of  the  personality  of  a  new  acquaintance. 
Not  of  his  or  her  intellect  or  moral  worth,  perhaps,  but 
the  register  of  that  rare  power  which  dominates  all  attri- 
butes —  that  peculiar  aroma,  flavour,  timbre,  or  colour  which  makes 
some  of  our  friends  eternally  exceptional.  "Who  dares  classify 
him  and  label  him,  sins  against  the  Holy  Ghost;  I,  for  one,  think 
I  know  him  only  inasmuch  as  I  refuse  to  sum  him  up.  I  cannot 
find  his  name  in  the  dictionary;  I  cannot  make  a  map  of  him;  I 
cannot  write  his  epitaph."  So  writes  Sonia  of  a  friend  with  such 
a  personality,  and  you  will  see  by  this  that  Sonia  herself  is  of  the 
caste  of  the  Articulate. 

We  are  influenced  first  by  sight,  then  by  sound,  and,  lastly,  by 
the  written  word.  "  She  spoke,  and  lo !  her  loveliness  methought 
she  damaged  with  her  tongue ! "  is  the  description  of  many  a  woman 
who  appeals  to  the  eye  alone.  And  in  something  the  same  way 
many  who  fascinate  us  with  their  glamour  while  face  to  face,  shock 
us  by  the  dreary  commonplaceness  of  their  letters. 

It  would  seem  that  an  interesting  person  must  inevitably  write 
an  interesting  letter, — indeed,  that  should  be  a  part  of  the  definition 
of  the  term  interesting.  But  many  decent  folk  are  gagged  with  con- 
straint and  self-consciousness,  and  never  seem  to  get  free. 

"I  wonder,"  says  Little  Sister,  "whether  these  wordless  folk 
may  not,  after  all,  really  feel  much  more  deeply  than  we  who  write?" 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


That  is  a  troublesome  question,  and  in  its  very  nature 

unanswerable,   since    the   witnesses    are   dumb.     No 

doubt  they  feel  more  simply  and  unquestioningly,  for        pf  tl)f 

as  soon  as  a  thing  is  once  said  its  opposite  and  contra-     &rtictllat* 

dictory  side,  as  true  and  as  necessary,  reacts  upon  us. 

But  it  seems  to  me  that  expression  does  not  so  much  depend  upon 

any  spiritual  insight,  or  even  upon  especial  training,  as  it  does  upon 

the  capacity  for  being  one's  self  frankly  and  simply.     That  is  the 

only  thing  necessary  to   make  the   humblest  person  interesting,  and 

yet   nothing  is  so  difficult  as  to  be  one's  self  in  this  wild,  whirling 

world. 

Expression  is  but  another  name  for  revelation.  Unless  one  is 
willing  to  expose  one's  self  like  Lady  Godiva,  or  protected  only  by 
such  beauty  and  sincerity  as  hers,  one  can  go  but  a  little  way  in  the 
direction  of  individuality.  We  must  sacrifice  ourselves  at  every 
turn,  show  good  and  bad  alike,  and  laugh  at  ourselves  too.  "  Would 
that  mine  enemy  might  write  a  book ! "  is  no  insignificant  curse,  and 
yet  there  are  tepid,  colourless  authors  who  might  hazard  it  with  safety; 
no  one  would  ever  discover  the  element  of  personality. 

"After  our  quarrel  I  felt  as  if  I  had  a  pebble  in  my  shoe  all 
day,"  Little  Sister  once  wrote  me.  Let  that  be  an  example  of  the 
articulate  manner,  for  by  such  vivid  and  homely  metaphors  she 
strews  her  pages.  Did  she  reserve  such  phrases  for  her  written 
words,  I  would  feel  bound  to  claim  for  letter-writing  the  distinction 
of  being  an  art  of  itself,  unrelated  to  any  other  faculty ;  but  no,  she 
talks  in  the  same  way  —  she  is  herself  every  moment.  "  My  temper 
is  violent  and  sudden,  but  it  soon  evaporates,"  she  tells  me ;  "  it  is 
like  milk  spilt  on  a  hot  stove." 

The  inspiration  which  impels  one   so  to  illustrate  an  abstract 

57 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


statement  with  a  concrete  example,  illuminating  and 
Catft*   convincing,  is  a  spark  of  the  divine  fire  of  personality. 
Of  t$t        This  is  the  crux  of  the  articulate  caste.     An  ounce  of 
ftttiCttlatl    illustration  is  worth  a  pound  of  proof.     Rob  poetry 
of  metaphor  and  it  would  be  but  prose ;  a  simile,  in 
verse,  is   usually  merely  ornament.     The   true  purpose    of  tropes, 
however,  is  more  virile  and  sustaining ;  they  should  reinforce  logic, 
not  decorate  it.     See  how  agilely  Perilla  can    compress   the  whole 
history  of  a  flirtation  into  six  lines,  defying  the  old  saying  that  "  there 
is  nothing  so  difficult  to  relight  as  a  dead  love." 

I  thought  I  saw  a  stiffened  form 

A-lyingin  its  shroud; 
I  looked  again  and  saw  it  was 

The  love  we  once  avowed. 
"  They  told  me  you  were  dead !"  I  cried. 

The  corpse  sat  up  and  bowed! 

When  one  has  a  few  such  acquaintances  as  these,  books  are 
superfluous.  Who  would  read  a  dead  romance  when  one  can  have 
it  warm  and  living,  vibrant,  human,  coming  like  instalments  of  a 
serial  story,  a  perpetual  revelation  of  character  !  Many  pride  them- 
selves upon  their  proficiency  in  matter  and  many  in  manner, —  there 
are  those,  even,  who  boast  of  mere  quantity,  but  your  professional 
writer  is  usually  cool  and  calm,  if  not  affected  and  pretentious.  A 
letter,  though,  should  be  impregnate  with  living  fire  —  it  should  boil. 
It  is  a  treat  of  exceptional  human  nature.  If  the  sentences  be  not 
spontaneous  and  unstudied  the  pleasure  is  lost.  One  may  write  fiery 
nonsense,  but  one  must  mean  it  at  the  time.  One's  mind  must,  as 
Sonia  says,  be  hospitable,  keep  open  house,  and  have  the  knack  of 
making  one's  friends  at  home,  to  throb  with  one's  own  delights  and 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


Caotc 
of  tt)c 
articulate 

her   letters, 
been  sitting 


despairs.  One  must  give  every  mood  open-handed, 
and  mention  nothing  one  may  not  say  outright  with 
gusto.  But  it  is  not  everyone  who  can  "bathe  in 
rich,  young  feeling,  and  steep  at  day-dawning  in  green 
bedewed  grasses"  like  my  little  Sonia.  If  I  were 
dead  she  could  still  strike  sparks  out  of  me  with 

"  Oh,  if  you  could  only  see  my  new  hat !  I've 
in  fetish  worship  half  the  evening,  and  I'll  never  dare  tell  how 
much  I  paid  for  it.  You  never  need  be  good-looking  under  such  a 
hat  as  that,  for  no  one  will  ever  see  you  !  "  Does  not  this  quotation 
bring  Little  Sister  very  near  to  you,  and  make  her  very  human  and 
real  ?  Ah,  Little  Sister  is  not  afraid  to  be  herself!  She  knows  that 
she  can  do  nothing  better.  "  It's  a  terrible  handy  thing  to  have  a 
smashing  adjective  in  your  pocket,"  she  confesses.  Little  Sister  has 
a  good  aim,  too ;  she  always  hits  my  heart.  And  yet  she  acknowl- 
edges that  "  there  are  days  when  letters  are  blankly  impossible." 

Such  friends  write  the  kind  of  letters  that  one  keeps  always, 
the  kind  that  can  be  re-read  without  skipping.  It  is  their  own  talk, 
their  own  lives,  their  own  selves  put  up  like  fruit  preserves  of  various 
flavours,  moods  and  colours,  warranted  not  to  turn  or  spoil. 

And  as  for  the  gagged,  wordless  folk,  it  is  my  opinion  that  too 

much  sensibility  has  been  accredited  to  them.     To  any  rich  exotic 

nature  expression  must  come  as  a  demand  not  to  be  refused.     It  is 

feeling  bubbling  over  into  words.     Other  souls  are  compressed  and 

silent;  they  have  the  possibilities  of  the  bud — something  warm 

and  inspiring  may  at  any  time  make  them  expand 

and  free  them  from  the  constraint — but  there 

is    not    much    perfume    until 

the  flower  blooms. 


59 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


Cprannp  of  flje  Hates 


NO,  I  have  never  been  tainted  with  a  mania  for  collecting. 
It  has  never  particularly  interested  me,  because  I  already 
happened  to  have  two  of  a  kind,  to  possess  a  third.     I 
prefer  things  to  be  different  rather  than  alike,  and  the  few 
things  I  really  care  for  I  like  for  themselves  alone,  and  not  because 
they  are  one  of  a  family,  set  or  series. 

But  there  are  so  few  things  to  be  envious  of,  even  then !  After 
one's  necessities  are  provided  for,  there  are  not  many  things  worth 
possessing,  and  fewer  still  worth  the  struggle  of  collecting.  Acquisi- 
tion seems  to  rob  most  things  of  their  intrinsic  value,  of  the  extreme 
desirability  they  seemed  to  possess,  and  yet  it  does  not  follow  that 
the  practice  of  collecting  is  not  worth  while.  It  is  worth  while  for 
itself,  but  not  for  the  things  collected.  It  is  like  hunting.  The  en- 
joyment, to  your  true  sportsman,  does  not  depend  entirely  upon  the 
game  that  is  bagged.  If  the  hunter  went  out  solely  for  the  purpose 
of  obtaining  food  he  would  better  go  to  the  nearest  poulterer. 

We  have  a  habit  of  associating  the  idea  of  pleasure  with  the 
possession  of  certain  objects,  and  we  fancy  such  pleasure  is  perma- 
nent. But  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  the  enjoyment  is  effervescent, 
and  the  thing  must  be  gazed  at,  touched  and  admired  while  the 
charm  is  new.  Then  only  can  one  feel  the  sharp  joy  of  possession, 
and,  even  though  its  value  remain  as  an  object  of  art,  we  must  after 
that  enjoy  it  impersonally;  its  delight  must  be  shared  with  other 
spectators.  As  far  as  the  satisfaction  of  ownership  is  concerned  the 

60 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


thing  is  dead  for  us,  and  though  we  would  not  give  it 
up,  our  greed  gilds  it  but  cheaply,  after  all. 

Of  all  things,  pictures  are  most  commonly  re-  ^granny  Of 
garded  as  giving  pleasure.     A  painting  is  universally     tjje  Hares 
regarded  as  a   desirable  possession  of  more  or  less 
value,  according  to  personal  appreciation.     In  fact,  most  men  would 
say  that  a  poor  picture  is  better  than  none,  since  one  of  its  recog- 
nized functions  is   to  fill   a  space  on  the  wall.     And  yet  how  few 
pictures  are  looked  at  once  a  day,  or  once  a  week.     How  many  per- 
sons accept  them  only  as  decoration,  as  spots  on  the  wall,  and  pass 
them  by,  in  their  familiarity,  as  unworthy  of  especial  notice ! 

But  the  collection  of  a  multitude  of  things  is  no  great  oppres- 
sion if  one  is  permanently  installed;  they  pad  out  the  comforts  of 
life,  they  create  "  atmosphere " ;  they  fill  up  spaces  in  the  house  as 
small  talk  fills  up  spaces  in  conversation.  The  first  prospect  of  mov- 
ing, however,  brings  this  horde  of  stupid,  useless,  dead  things  to  life, 
and  they  appear  in  their  proper  guise  to  strike  terror  into  the  heart 
of  the  owner.  Pictures  that  have  never  been  regarded,  curiosities 
that  are  only  curious,  books  that  no  longer  feed  the  brain,  and  the 
thousand  little  knickknacks  that  accumulate  in  one's  domicile  and 
multiply  like  parasites  —  all  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  housekeeping 
must  be  individually  attended  to,  and  rejected  or  preserved  piece- 
meal. 

But  that  exciting  decision !  It  is  not  till  one  has  actually  had 
the  courage  to  destroy  some  once  prized  possession  that  one  feels  the 
first  inspiring  thrill  of  emancipation.  Before,  the  Thing  owned  you ; 
it  had  to  be  protected  in  its  useless  life,  kept  intact  with  care  and  at- 
tention. You  were  pledged  to  forestall  dust,  rust  and  pillage.  If 
you  yourself  selected  it,  it  stood  as  a  tangible  evidence  of  your  oil- 

61 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


ture,  an  ornament  endorsed  as  art.     The  Thing  for- 
bade    growth    of    taste    or    judgment,   it    became   a 
Of  changeless  reproach.     If  it  were  a  gift,  it  ruled  you 
tfyt  JL&VtQ     with  a  subtle  tyranny,  compelling  your  hypocrisy,  en- 
slaving you  by  chains  of  your  very  good  nature.     But 
if  you  do  not  falter,  in  one  exquisite  pang   you  are   freed.     The 
Thing  is  destroyed!     Not  given   away,   not   hidden    or  disguised, 
but  murdered  outright.     It  is  your  sublime  duty  to  yourself  that 
demands  the  sacrifice. 

These  horrid  monsters  once  put  out  of  your  life,  and  all  neces- 
sity for  their  care  annulled,  you  have  so  much  more  space  for  the  few 
things  whose  quality  remains  permanent.  You  will  guard  the  en- 
trance to  your  domicile  and  jealously  examine  the  qualifications  of 
every  article  admitted.  You  will  ask,  "Is  it  absolutely  necessary?" 
If  so,  then  let  it  be  as  beautiful  as  possible,  putting  into  its  perfection 
of  design  the  expense  and  care  formerly  bestowed  on  a  dozen  trifles- 
You  will  use  gold  instead  of  silver,  linen  instead  of  cotton,  ivory  in 
the  place  of  celluloid;  in  short,  whatever  you  use  intimately  and 
continually,  whatever  has  a  definite  plausible  excuse  for  existence, 
should  be  so  beautiful  that  there  is  no  need  for  objects  which  are 
merely  ornamental. 

It  was  so  before  machinery  made  everything  possible,  common 
and  cheap ;  it  has  been  so  with  every  primitive  civilization.  To  the 
unspoiled  peasant,  to  all  of  sane  and  simple  mind,  ornaments  have, 
in  themselves,  no  reason  for  being.  Pictures  are  unnecessary,  because 
the  true  craftsman  so  elaborates  and  develops  the  constructive  lines 
of  his  architecture  that  the  decoration  is  organic  and  inherent.  The 
many  household  utensils,  vessels  and  implements  of  daily  use  were 
so  appropriately  formed,  so  graceful  and  elegant  in  their  simplicity, 

6^ 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


so  cunning  of  line,  so  quaint  of  form  and  pleasant  of 

colour,  that  they  were  objects  of  art,  and  there  was  no 

need  for  the  extraneous  display  of  meaningless  adorn-  <fl£|>rannp  Ot 

ment.  tfj*  £a«0 

Once  you  are  possessed  with  this  idea  you  will 
suddenly  become  aware  of  the  tyranny  of  Things,  and  you  will  begin 
to  dread  becoming  a  slave  to  mere  possessions.  You  may  still  enjoy 
and  admire  the  possessions  of  others,  but  the  ineffable  bore  of  owner- 
ship will  keep  you  content.  The  responsibility  of  proprietorship  will 
strike  you  with  terror,  gifts  will  appal  you,  the  opportunity  of  rid- 
ding yourself  of  one  more  unnecessary  thing  will  be  welcomed  as 
another  stroke  for  freedom.  Your  friends'  houses  will  become  your 
museums,  and  they  the  altruistic  custodians,  allowing  you  the  un- 
alloyed sweets  of  appreciation  with  none  of  the  bitter  responsibilities 
of  possession. 

For  you,  if  you  are  of  my  kind,  and  would  be  free  to  fly  light, 
flitting,  gipsy  fashion,  wherever  and  whenever  the  whim  calls,  must 
not  be  anchored  to  an  establishment.  We  must  know  and  love  our 
few  possessions  as  a  father  knows  his  children.  We  must  be  able  to 
pack  them  all  in  one  box  and  follow  them  foot-loose.  This  is  the 
new  order  of  Friars  Minor,  modern  Paulists  who  have  renounced 

the    possession    of    things,   and    by    that    vow    of    dis- 
inheritance,  parting   with    the    paltry    delights 
of  monopoly,  have  been  given  the 
roving    privilege    of    the 
whole  world! 


63 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


Costume  anto  Custom 


A ^RIEND  of  mine  has  reduced  his  habit  of  dress  to  a 
system.  Dressing  has  long  been  known  to  be  a  fine  art, 
but  this  enthusiast's  endeavour  has  been  to  make  it  a 
science  as  well  —  to  give  his  theories  practical  application 
to  the  routine  of  daily  life.  To  do  this,  he  has  given  his  coats  and 
jackets  all  Anglo-Saxon  names.  His  frock  is  called  Albert,  for 
instance,  his  morning  coat  Cedric,  a  grey  tweed  jacket,  Arthur,  and 
so  on.  His  waistcoats  masquerade  under  more  poetic  pseudonyms. 
A  white  pique  is  known  as  Reginald,  a  spotted  cashmere  is  Mont- 
morency,  and  I  have  seen  this  eccentric  in  a  wonderful  plaid  vest 
hight  Roulhac.  His  trousers  and  pantaloons  are  distinguished  by 
family  names;  I  need  only  mention  such  remarkable  aliases  as  Brag- 
hampton,  a  striped  cheviot  garment,  and  a  pair  of  tennis  flannels 
denominated  Smithers.  His  terminology  includes  also  appellations 
by  which  he  describes  his  neckwear  —  simple  prefixes,  such  as  "de" 
or  "  von"  or  "  Mac"  or  "  Fitz,"  modifying  the  name  of  the  waistcoat, 
and  titles  for  his  hats,  varying  from  a  simple  "  Sir"  for  a  brown 
bowler  to  "  Prince"  for  a  silk  topper  of  the  season's  block. 

Now,  my  mythical  friend  is  not  such  a  fool  as  you  might  think 
by  this  description  of  his  mania,  for  he  is  moved  to  this  fantastic 
procedure  by  a  psychological  theory.  The  gentleman  is  a  private, 
if  not  a  public,  benefactor,  the  joy  of  his  friends  and  delight  of  his 
whole  acquaintance,  for,  never  in  the  course  of  their  experience,  has 
he  ever  appeared  twice  in  exactly  the  same  costume.  It  may  differ 


64 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


from  some  previous  habilitation  only  by  the  tint  of  his 
gloves,  but  the  change  is  there  with  its  subtile  sugges-     CoiEfttttltt 
tion    of  newness.      Indeed,    this    sartorial    dilettante          and 
prides  himself,  not  so  much  upon  the  fact  that   his      CtttftOttt 
raiment  is  never  duplicated  in  combination,  as  that  the 
changes  are  so  slight  as  not  to  be  noticed  without  careful  analysis. 
His  maxim  is  that  clothes  should  not  call  attention  to  themselves 
either  by  their  splendour  or  their  variety,  but  that  the  effect  should 
be  upon  the  emotions  rather  than  upon  the  eye.     He  holds  that  it 
should  never  be  particularly  noticed  whether  a  man  dresses  much  or 
dresses  well,  but  that  the  impression  should  be  of  an  immortal  fresh- 
ness, sustaining  the  confidence  of  his  friends  that  his  garb  shall  have 
a  pleasing  note  of  composition. 

It  is  to  accomplish  this  that  he  has  adopted  the  mnemonic  sys- 
tem by  which  to  remember  his  changing  combinations.  He  has  but  to 
say  to  his  valet :  "  Muggins,  this  morning  you  may  introduce  Earl 
Edgar  von  Courtenay  Blenkinsopp,"  and  his  man,  familiar  with  the 
nomenclature  of  the  wardrobe,  will,  after  his  master  has  been  bathed, 
shaved  and  breakfasted,  clothe  the  artist  accordingly  in  Panama  hat, 
sack  coat,  cheerful  fawn  waistcoat,  a  tender  heliotrope  scarf  and  pin- 
check  trousers.  Or  perhaps,  looking  over  the  calendar,  the  man 
may  announce  that  this  fantastic  Earl  has  already  appeared  at  the 
club,  in  which  case  a  manipulation  of  the  tie  or  waistcoat  changes 
von  Courtenay  to  O'Anstruther.  The  Earl  must  not,  according  to 
the  rules,  appear  twice  in  his  full  complement  of  costume.  His 
existence  is  but  for  a  day,  but  Anstruther,  the  merry  corduroy  vest, 
may  become  a  part  of  many  personalities. 

So  much  for  my  friend  Rigamarole,  who  does,  if  you  like,  carry 
his  principles  to  an  extreme;  but  surely  we  owe  it  to  our  friends  that 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


our  clothes  shall  please.     It  is  as   necessary  as  that 

C00tUtttt      we  should  have  clean  faces  and  proper  nails.     But, 

and          more  than  this,  we  owe  it  to  ourselves  that  we  shall 

Cu0tOttt      not  be  known  by  any  hackneyed,  unvarying  garb.     It 

need  not  be  taken  for  granted  that  we  shall  wear 
brown  or  blue,  we  should  not  become  identified  with  a  special 
shape  of  collar.  Servants  must  wear  a  prescribed  livery,  priests 
must  always  appear  clad  in  the  cloth  of  their  office,  and  the  soldier 
must  be  content  with  and  proud  of  his  uniform,  but  free  men  are  not 
forced  to  inflict  a  permanent  visual  impression  upon  their  fellows. 
He  must  follow  the  habit  and  style  of  the  day,  be  of  his  own 
class  and  period,  and  yet,  besides,  if  he  can,  be  himself  always 
characteristic,  while  always  presenting  a  novel  aspect.  It  is  as 
necessary  for  a  man  as  for  a  woman,  and,  though  the  elements 
which  he  may  combine  are  fewer,  they  are  capable  of  a  certain 
kaleidoscopic  effect. 

Our  time  is  cursed  more  than  any  other  has  been,  perhaps,  with 
hard  and  fast  rules  for  men's  costume ;  and  of  all  clothing,  evening 
dress,  in  which,  in  the  old  days,  was  granted  the  greatest  freedom  of 
choice,  is  now  subject  to  the  most  rigid  prescription.  We  must  all 
appear  like  waiters  at  dinner,  but  daylight  allows  tiny  licences. 
Perhaps  our  garments  are  always  darkest  just  before  dawn,  and  the 
new  century  may  emancipate  men's  personal  taste.  So  far,  at  least, 
we  may  go:  a  frock  coat  does  not  compel  a  tie  of  any  particular  colour, 
and  a  morning  coat  does  not  invariably  forbid  a  certain  subdued 
animation  in  the  way  of  waistcoats.  We  may  already  choose  between 
at  least  three  styles  of  collar  and  yet  be  received  at  five  o'clock,  and 
coloured  shirts  are  making  a  hard  fight  to  oust  the  white  linen  which 
has  reigned  for  more  than  half  a  hundred  years.  It  takes  no  great 

66 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


wealth  to  take  advantage  of  these  minor  opportunities, 
nor  need  one  be  pronounced  a  fop  if  one  uses  one's 
chances  well.     He  is  safest  who  wears  only  what  the          an& 
best  tailor  has  advised  every  other  of  his  customers,      Cu0t0ttt 
but  who  cares  for  a  tailor's  model  ?      Who  cares,  I 
might  add,  to  be  safe?     There  is  safety  in  numbers,  but  who  ever 
remembers  or  cares  for  the  victims  of  such  commonplace  discretion? 
We  are  men,  not  mice ;  why  should  our  coats  be  all  of  the   same 
fashionable  hue  and  of  the  same  length  of  tail  ? 

But  the  times  are  changing,  and  we  may  look  forward  with 
confident  hope  to  the  renascence  of  colour.  Already  we  may  see  the 
signs  of  the  change  that  is  approaching.  God  forbid  that  men  should 
become  the  dandies  of  the  Regency,  that  we  should  ever  ape  the 
incredible  or  go  without  pockets,  but  we  may  pray  heartily  for  the 
wedding  of  Art  and  Reason.  Let  us  pray  we  shall  no  more  wear 
cylinders  or  cap  our  skulls  with  tight-fitting  boxes !  Meanwhile, 

I   fear   I   must   buy   another   necktie,  for   my  only  one 

is    well    worn    out.      And    Celestine    swears 

she      can      recognize      that      blue 

serge  suit  of  mine,  clear 

across  the  Park ! 


67 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


jftientis  ant) 


OLD    FRIENDS,  we   say,  are  best,  when  some  sudden 
disillusionment  shakes  our  faith  in  a  new  comrade.     So 
indeed  they  are,  yet  I  count  many  newly  made  ties  as 
stronger  than  those  of  my  youth.      "  Keep  close  and 
hold  my  hand ;  I  am  afraid,  for  an  old  friend  is  coming ! "  Celestine 
once  whispered  to  me  while   our   love  was  young.     How  well   I 
understood  her  panic !     She  was  swung  by  the  conflicting  emotions 
of  loyalty  and   oppression ;  her  old  friend   had  rights,  but  her  new 
friend  had  privileges.     With  me,  a  stranger,  she  was  frankly  herself; 
with  him,  a  familiar,  she  must  be  what  he  expected  of  her. 

How  shall  we  arrange  the  order  of  precedence  for  the  late  and 
early  comers  into  our  hearts  ?  How  shall  we  adjudicate  their  con- 
flicting claims  ?  That  is  the  problem  to  be  answered  by  everyone 
who  lives  widely,  and  who  would  not  have  writ  upon  his  gravestone  : 
"  He  made  more  friends  than  he  could  keep  !  "  Were  one  content 
to  pass  from  flower  to  flower  it  would  be  easy  enough,  but  I  would 
gather  a  full,  fragrant  and  harmonious  bouquet  for  my  delight. 

To  one  sensitively  loyal,  each  new  friend  must  at  first  sight 
seem  to  come  as  a  robber  to  steal  a  fragment  of  his  heart  from  its 
rightful  owner.  We  say,  "Make  many  acquaintances  but  few 
friends,"  we  swear  undying  devotion,  and  we  promise  to  write  every 
week;  but,  if  we  practice  this  reserve,  this  fastidious  partiality  and 
this  exclusive  attention,  how  shall  we  grow  and  increase  in  worth,  and 
how  shall  the  Brotherhood  of  Man  be  brought  about? 

68 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


We  may  think  that  each  friend  has  his  own  place 
and   is   unique,  satisfying  some  especial   part  of  our 
nature;    each    to   be  kept  separate  in  his  niche,  the  jfttatllg  and 
saint  to  whom  we  turn  for  sympathy  in  those  matters         jj&to 
wherein  we   have  vowed  him   our  confidences.     We 
may  satisfy  our  consciences  by  giving  to  each  the  same  number  of 
candles,  and  by  a  religious  celebration  of  each  Saint's  day,  keeping 
the  calendar  of  our  devotions  independent  and  exclusive,  but  this 
method  does  not  make  for  growth.     It  is  our  duty  to  help  knit 
Society  together,  to  modify  extremes,  to  transmit  and  transform  affec- 
tion.    Surely  there  is  love  enough  for  all,  and  the  more  we  give  the 
more  we    shall    have   to  give  to  our  friends,  whether  they  be  old 
or  new. 

Friendship  is,  however,  a  matter  of  caste.  With  just  as  many 
as  share  our  point  of  view  or  can  understand  it,  who  laugh  at 
the  things  we  laugh  at,  who  are  tempted  by  our  temptations  and  sin 
our  sins,  can  we  have  a  divine  fellowship.  Through  these  to  others 
outside  of  our  ken,  through  friend  to  friend's  friend  the  tie  passes 
that  shall  bind  the  whole  world  together  at  last. 

Our  set  of  friends  is  a  solar  system,  a  cluster  of  planets,  that, 
revolving  about  us,  moves  with  the  same  trend  through  space  and 
time.  Each  member  of  the  fraternity  has  its  own  aphelion  and 
perihelion,  occultation  and  transit.  Whether  they  are  visible  or 
invisible,  we  must  be  sure  that  each  in  due  season  will  return  to  the 
same  relative  position  and  exert  the  same  attraction,  answering  the 
law  of  gravity  that  in  true  friendship  keeps  them  in  their  orbits  about 
us.  But  the  circles  interlace,  and  in  that  is  the  possibility  of  keep- 
ing the  unity  of  our  constellation  of  friends.  Were  the  same  com- 
rades to  accompany  us  unceasingly  we  could  not  develop.  There 


69 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


must   be  an    intricate   complication    of  actions    and 
reactions,  and  we  must  be  affected  by  each  in  turn  and 
and  m  combination. 

What  is  a  parting  from  a  friend  but  a  departure 
in  quest  of  new  experience?  Each  fresh  meeting, 
therefore,  should  be  the  sharing  of  the  fruits  that  both  have  gathered, 
that  each  may  profit  by  the  contribution.  If  you  tell  me  of  a  book 
you  have  read,  I  am  amused  and  profited  by  the  knowledge  you 
bring  me;  shall  I  not  be  grateful  to  you  for  what  you  bring  from  an 
interesting  person  ?  If  every  new  friend  contributes  to  our  develop- 
ment and  enriches  us  by  his  personality,  not  only  are  we  the  better 
for  it  ourselves,  but  more  worth  while  to  our  friends.  It  is  not  you 
as  you  are  whom  I  love  best,  but  you  as  you  shall  be  when,  in  due 
time,  you  have  come  to  your  perfect  stature;  wherefore  I  shall  not 
begrudge  the  loan  of  you  to  those  who  have  set  you  on  the  way. 

Though  we  may  hold  one  friend  paramount  over  all  others, 
and  admit  him  to  every  phase  of  intimacy,  there  are  minor  confi- 
dences that  are  often  most  possible  with  an  entire  stranger.  Were 
we  to  meet  a  man  of  the  Sixteenth  Century,  what  could  we  not  tell 
such  an  impersonal  questioner!  What  would  we  care  for  the  little 
mortifications  that  come  between  even  the  best  of  friends?  We 
could  confess  faults  and  embarrassments  without  shame,  we  could 
share  every  hope  and  doubt  without  fear,  for  he  would  regard  us 
without  bias  or  prejudice.  He  could  scourge  us  with  no  whip  of 
conventional  morality,  and  he  would  be  able  to  judge  any  action  of 
itself,  hampered  by  no  code  or  creed. 

We  had  a  game  once,  my  sister  and  I,  in  which  we  agreed  to 
look  at  each  other  suddenly,  newly,  as  if  we  had  never  met 
before.  Frequently  we  were  able  to  catch  a  novel  phase  of  character, 

70 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


and  our  sub-conscious  self,  freed  from  the  servitude 
of  custom,  bounded  in  a  new  emotion.  Could  we,  in 
this  way,  at  times  regard  our  friends,  how  much  we  ftitntMl  attil 
might  learn !  We  fall  into  the  habit  of  seeing  what  we 
look  for,  and  we  compel  old  friends  to  live  up  to  the 
preconception.  Why  not  look  at  them,  occasionally,  as  strangers  to 
be  studied  and  learned  ?  There  are  two  variable  quantities  in  the 
equation  of  friendship,  Yourself  and  Myself.  Nor  is  our  relation 
itself  fixed;  it  is  alive  and  changing  from  hour  to  hour.  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  an  unalterable  friendship,  for  both  parties  to  the  affair 
are  moving  at  different  speeds,  first  one  and  then  the  other  ahead, 
giving  a  hand  to  be  helped  on  and  reaching  back  to  assist.  Might 
we  not,  indeed,  reverse  the  previous  experiment  and  regard  any 
stranger  as  a  blood  relative,  assuming  a  fraternity  of  interest?  We 
need  only  to  be  honest  and  kind. 

By  these  two  processes  we  may  keep  old  friends  and  make  new 
ones ;  and  our  conscience  shall  acquit  us  of  disloyalty.  When  one 
enlarges  one's  establishment,  one  does  not  decrease  either  the  wages 
or  the  duties  of  the  servants  before  employed.  The  new  members 
of  the  household  have  new  functions.  More  is  given  and  more  is 
received.  But  it  is  not  so  much  that  one  must  give  more  as  that 
one  should  give  wisely  and  economically,  we  must  be  generous  in 
quality  rather  than  in  quantity;  for,  though  there  is  love  enough 

to  go  round  for  all,  there  is  not  time  enough  for  most  of 

us.     We  must  clasp  hands,  give  the  message  and 

pass  on,  trusting  to  meet  again  on  the 

journey,  and  come  to  the  same 

inn    at    nightfall. 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


Befense  of  |s>iang 


COULD  Shakespeare  come  to  Chicago  and  listen  curiously 
to  "  the  man  in  the  street,"  he  would  find  himself  more 
at  home  than  in  London.     In  the  mouths  of  messenger 
boys  and  clerks  he  would  find  the  English  language  used 
with  all  the  freedom  of  unexpected  metaphor  and  the  plastic,  sug- 
gestive diction  that  was  the  privilege  of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists; 
he  would  say,  no  doubt,  that  he  had  found  a  nation  of  poets.    There 
was  hardly  any  such  thing  as  slang  in  his  day,  for  no  graphic  trope 
was  too  virile  or  uncommon  for  acceptance,  if  its  meaning  were  pat- 
ent.    His  own  heroes  (and  heroines,  too,  for  Rosalind's  talk  was  as 
forcible  in  figures  of  speech  as  any  modern  American's)  often  spoke 
what  corresponds  to  the  slang  of  today. 

The  word,  indeed,  needs  precise  definition,  before  we  condemn 
all  unconventional  talk  with  opprobrium.  Slang  has  been  called 
"  poetry  in  the  rough,"  and  it  is  not  all  coarse  or  vulgar.  There  is 
a  prosaic  as  well  as  a  poetic  license.  The  man  in  the  street  calls  a 
charming  girl,  for  instance,  a  "  daisy."  Surely  this  is  not  inelegant, 
and  such  a  reference  will  be  understood  a  century  hence  without  a 
foot-note.  Slang,  to  prove  adjuvant  to  our  speech,  which  is  growing 
more  and  more  rigid  and  conventional,  should  be  terse ;  it  should 
make  for  force  and  clarity,  without  any  sacrifice  of  beauty.  Still, 
manner  should  befit  matter;  the  American  "dude"  is,  perhaps,  no 
more  unpleasant  a  word  than  the  emasculated  fop  it  described.  The 
English  "  bounder "  is  too  useful  an  appellation  to  do  without  in 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


London,  and,  were  that  meretricious  creature  of  pre- 
tence and  fancy  waistcoat  more  common  in  the  United 
States,  the  term    would  be   welcomed    to   American    & 
slang  with  enthusiasm.     New  York,  alas,  has  already      Of 
produced  "cads,"  but  no  Yankee  school  would  ever 
tolerate  a  "fag." 

The  mere  substitution  of  a  single  synonymous  term,  however, 
is  not  characteristic  of  American  slang.  Your  Chicago  messenger 
boy  coins  metaphorical  phrases  with  the  facility  of  a  primitive  savage. 
A  figure  of  speech  once  started  and  come  into  popular  acceptance 
changes  from  day  to  day  by  paraphrase,  and,  so  long  as  a  trace  of 
the  original  significance  is  apparent,  the  personal  variation  is  compre- 
hensible, not  only  to  the  masses,  but  generally  to  those  whose  purism 
eschews  the  use  of  the  common  talk.  Thus,  to  give  "the  glassy 
eye  "  became  the  colloquial  equivalent  of  receiving  a  cool  reception. 
The  man  on  the  street,  inventive  and  jocose,  does  not  stop  at  this. 
At  his  caprice  it  becomes  giving  "  the  frozen  face "  or  even  "  the 
marble  heart."  In  the  same  way  one  may  hear  a  garrulous  person 
spoken  of  as  "talking  to  beat  the  band,"  an  obvious  metaphor;  or, 
later,  "  to  beat  the  cars." 

The  only  parallel  to  this  in  England  is  the  "  rhyming  slang " 
of  the  costers,  and  the  thieves'  "patter."  There  a  railway  guard 
may  be  facetiously  termed  a  "  Christmas  card,"  and  then  abbreviated 
to  "card"  alone,  thence  to  permutations  not  easily  traced.  But  Eng- 
lish slang  is,  for  the  most  part,  confined  to  the  "masses,"  and  is  an 
incomprehensible  jargon  to  all  else  save  those  who  make  an  especial 
study  of  the  subject.  One  may  sit  behind  a  bus  driver  from  the 
Bank  to  Fulham,  and  understand  hardly  a  sentence  of  his  colloquies 
and  gibes  at  the  passing  fraternity,  but  though  the  language  of  the 

73 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


trolley  conductor  of  Chicago  is  as  racy  and  spirited, 
it  needs  less  translation.  The  American  will,  it  is 
SDtttnQt  enigmatic  at  times  ;  you  must  put  two  and 


Of  Slang  ^Q  t0gether.  You  must  reduce  his  trope  to  ts 
lowest  terms,  but  common  sense  will  simplify  it. 
It  is  not  an  empirical,  arbitrary  wit  depending  upon  a  music-hall 
song  for  its  origin.  I  was  riding  on  a  Broadway  car  one  day  when  a 
semi-intoxicated  individual  got  on,  and  muttered  unintelligibly,  "  Put 
me  off  at  Brphclwknd  Street,  please."  I  turned  to  the  conductor 
and  asked,  "  What  did  he  want  ?"  The  official  smiled.  "  You  can 
search  me  !  "  he  said,  in  denial  of  any  possession  of  apprehension. 

Slang  in  America,  then,  is  expression  on  trial  ;  if  it  fits  a 
hitherto  unfurnished  want  it  achieves  a  certain  acceptance.  But  it  is 
a  frothy  compound,  and  the  bubbles  break  when  the  necessity  of  the 
hour  is  past,  so  that  much  of  it  is  evanescent.  Some  of  the  older 
inventions  remain,  such  as  "  bunco"  and  "lynch"  and  "chestnut," 
but  whole  phrases  lose  their  snap  like  uncorked  champagne,  though 
they  give  their  stimulant  at  the  proper  timely  moment.  Like 
the  eggs  of  the  codfish,  one  survives  and  matures,  while  a  million 
perish.  The  "observed  of  all  observers"  (Ophelia's  delicate  slang, 
observe)  was,  yesterday,  in  New  York  "the  main  Guy,"  a  term 
whose  appositeness  would  be  easily  understood  in  London,  where 
the  fall  of  the  Gunpowder  Plot  is  still  celebrated.  Later,  in 
Chicago,  according  to  George  Ade,  a  modern  authority,  it  be- 
came the  "main  squeeze,"  and  another  permutation  rendered  the 
phrase  useless.  It  is  this  facility  of  change  that  makes  most  slang 
spoil  in  crossing  the  Atlantic.  On  the  other  side,  English  slang 
is  of  so  esoteric  an  origin  and  reference,  that  no  Yankee  can 
translate  or  adopt  it.  It  is  drop-forged  and  rigid,  an  empiric  use  of 

74 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


words  to  express  humour.  What  Englishman,  indeed, 
could  trace  the  derivation  of  "balmy  on  the  crumpet" 
as  meaning  what  the  American  would  term  "  dotty"  or  **•  *° 


"  bug-house,"    unless   he  was  actually  present  at  the 
music  hall  where  it  was  first  invented? 

We  have  at  least  three  native  languages  to  learn  —  the  colloquial, 
the  literary  prose,  and  the  separate  vocabulary  of  poetry.  In  America 
slang  makes  a  fourth,  and  it  has  come  to  be  that  we  feel  it  as  incon- 
gruous to  use  slang  on  the  printed  page  as  it  is  to  use  "  said  he"  or 
"  she  replied  with  a  smile"  in  conversation,  and,  except  for  a  few 
poets,  such  words  as  "  haply,"  "  welkin,"  or  "  beauteous"  in  prose. 
Yet  Stevenson  himself,  the  purist  who  avoids  foreign  words,  uses 
Scotch  which  nearly  approaches  slang,  for  there  is  little  difference 
between  words  of  an  unwritten  dialect  and  slang,  such  as  "  scrannel  " 
and  "  widdershins"  ;  while  Wilkie  Collins  writes  "  wyte,"  "wanion," 
"kittle,"  "gar,"  and  "  collop"  in  with  English  sentences,  as  doubt- 
less many  questionable  words  of  today  will  be  honoured  in  the 
future. 

Slang,  the  illegitimate  sister  of  Poetry,  makes  with  her  a  com- 
mon cause  against  the  utilitarian  economy  of  Prose.  Both  stand  for 
lavish  luxuriance  in  trope  and  involution,  for  floriation  and  adorn- 
ment of  thought.  It  is  their  boast  to  make  two  words  grow  where 
but  one  grew  before.  Both  garb  themselves  in  metaphor,  and  the 
only  complaint  of  the  captious  can  be  that  whereas  Poetry  follows 
the  accepted  style,  Slang  dresses  her  thought  to  suit  herself  in 
fantastic  and  bizarre  caprices  —  that  her  whims  are  unstable  and  too 
often  in  bad  taste. 

But  this  odium  given  to  slang  by  superficial  minds  is  unde- 
served. In  other  days,  before  the  language  was  crystallized  into 

75 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


the  verbiage  and  idiom  of  the  doctrinaire,  prose,  too, 
was  untrammelled.     A  cursory  glance  at  the   Eliza- 
bethan   poets  discloses  a  kinship  with  the  rebellious 
Ol  5>ianff     fanc}es  of  our  modern  common  colloquial  talk.     For 
gargarism,  scarab,  quodling,    puckfist,   scroyle,   foist, 
pumpion,  trindle-tale,  comrogue,  pigsbones,  and  ding-dong,  we  may 
now  read  chump,  scab,  chaw,  yap,  fake,  bloke,  pal,  bad-actor,  and  so 
on.     "  She's  a  delicate  dab-chick  ! "  says  Ben  Jonson ;  "  she  had  all 
the  component  parts  of  a  peach,"  says  George  Ade. 

It  will  be  seen  that  slang  has  two  characteristics — humour  and 
force.  Brevity  is  not  always  the  soul  of  wit,  for  today  we  find 
amusement  in  the  euphuisms  that,  in  the  sixteenth  century  were 
taken  in  all  seriousness.  The  circumlocutions  will  drop  speedily  out 
of  use,  but  the  more  apt  and  adequate  neologisms  tend  to  improve 
literary  style.  For  every  hundred  times  slang  attributes  a  new 
meaning  to  an  old  word,  it  creates  once  or  twice  a  new  word  for  an 
old  meaning.  Many  hybrids  will  grow,  some  flower  and  a  few  seed. 
So  it  is  with  slang. 

There  is  a  "  gentleman's  slang,"  as  Thackeray  said,  and  there 
is  the  impossible  kind ;  but  of  the  bulk  of  the  American  product,  the 
worst  to  be  said  of  it  usually  is  that  it  is   homely  and  extravagant. 
None  the  less  is  it  a  picturesque  element  that  spices  the  language 
with  enthusiasm.     It  is  antiseptic  and  prevents  the  decay  of  virility. 
Literary  style  is  but  an  individual,  glorified  slang.     It  is  not  impos- 
sible for  the  artist ;  it  went  to  its  extreme  in  the  abandon 
of  Ben   Jonson,  Webster,  and   Beaumont    and 
Fletcher,  but,  as  your  Cockney  would 
say,  "It  does  take  a  bit  of 
doin' "  nowadays. 

76 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


Cfje  Ciwrntfi  of  SMperfection 


FOR  a  long  time  I  have  held  a  stubborn  belief  that  I  should 
admire  and  aim  at  perfection.     I  admitted  its  impossibility, 
of  course ;    I  attributed  my  friends'  failure  to  achieve    it 
as  a  charming  evidence  of  their  humanity,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  to  be  a  thing  most  properly  to  be  desired.     And  yet,  upon 
thinking  it  over,  I  was  often  astonished  by  the  discovery  that  most 
of    my    delights   were   caused    by   a    divergence    from    this    ideal. 
"A  sweete  disorder  in  the  dress  kindleth  in  cloathes  a  wantonness ! " 
Now,  is  this  because  I  am  naturally  perverse,  and  enjoy  the 
bizarre,  the  unique  and  the  grotesque  ?     Is  it  because  of  my  frailty 
that  I  take  a  dear  delight  in  signs  of  our  common  humanity,  in  the 
petty  faults  and  foibles  of  the  world?     Or  is  it  because  I  have  mis- 
interpreted this  ideal  of  perfection,  and  have  thought  it  necessary  or 
proper  to  worship  a  conventional  criterion?     Celestine  and  I  have 
been  puckering  our  brows  for  a  week  over  the  problem ! 

We  have  learned,  after  a  quarter  of  a  century's  experience  with 
the  turning  lathe  and  fret  saw,  to  turn  back  for  lasting  joy  to  hand- 
made work.  We  delight  in  the  minor  irregularities  of  a  carving,  for 
instance,  recognizing  that  behind  that  slip  of  the  tool  there  was  a 
man  at  work;  a  man  with  a  soul,  striving  for  expression.  The 
dreary,  methodical  uniformity  of  machine-made  decoration  and  furni- 
ture wearies  our  new  enlightened  taste.  Mathematical  accuracy  and 
"spirit"  seem  to  be  mutually  exclusive,  and  we  have  been  taught  by 
the  modern  Esthetic  almost  to  regard  amateurishness  as  a  sure  proof 

77 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


of  sincerity.     We  cannot  associate  the  abandon  and 
naive  enthusiasm  of  the  pre-Raphaelites  with  the  tech- 
Cf)armd  Of    nical  proficiency  of  the  later  Renascence,  and  Botticelli 
imperfection  stands,  not  only  for  the  spirit  dominating  and  shining 
through  the  substance  but,  in  a  way,  for  the  incom- 
patibility of  perfect  idealization  with  perfect  execution.     And  yet  this 
conflict  troubles  us.     We  feel  that  the  two  should  be  wedded,  so  that 
the  legitimate  offspring  might  be  perfection;  but  when  perfect  tech- 
nique is  attained,  as  in  a  Japanese  carving,  the  result  is  almost  as 
devoid  of  human  feeling  and  warmth  as  a  machine-made  product. 

We  feel  this  instinctive  choice  of  irregularity  wherever  we  turn 
— wherever,  that  is,  we  have  to  do  with  humanity  or  human  achieve- 
ment. We  do  not,  it  is  true,  delight  in  the  flaw  in  the  diamond,  but 
elsewhere  we  are  in  perpetual  conflict  with  nature,  whose  sole  object 
seems  to  be  the  obliteration  of  extremes  and  the  ultimate  establish- 
ment of  a  happy  medium  of  uniformity.  We  find  perfection  cold 
and  lifeless  in  the  human  face.  I  doubt  if  a  woman  has  ever  been 
loved  for  an  absolute  regularity  of  feature;  but  how  many,  like  little 
Celestine,  who  acknowledges  herself  that  her  nose  is  too  crooked, 
her  eyes  too  hazel,  and  her  mouth  too  large,  are  bewilderingly  charm- 
ing on  that  very  account!  These  features  go  to  make  up  an  expres- 
sion, which,  if  it  is  not  perfect,  is  certainly  not  to  be  accounted  for 
by  merely  adding  up  the  items.  It  is  a  case  where  the  whole  is 
greater  than  the  sum  of  all  its  parts.  We  admire  the  anatomy  and 
poise  of  the  Greek  statues,  but  they  are  not  humanly  interesting. 
Indeed,  they  were  never  meant  to  be,  for  they  are  divinities,  and  the 
symbols  of  an  inaccessible  perfection. 

Still,  while  we  speak  of  certain  faults  as  being  adorable  (notably 
feminine  weaknesses),  while  we  make  the  trite  remark  anent  a  man's 

78 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


"  one  redeeming  vice,"  while  we  shrink  from   natures 
too   chaste,  too   aloof  from    human   temptation,  too 
uncompromising,  yet  we  must  feel   a   pang   of  con-    Cf)atm0  Ot 
science.     We  are  not  living  up  to  our  ideals.     Is  it  the  Jmpftff CtlOH 
mere  reaction  from  the  impositions  of  conventional 
morality?     I  think  not.     It  is  a  miscomprehension  of  the  term  per- 
fection. 

The  Buddhist  believes  in  a  process  of  spiritual  evolution  that, 
tending  ever  toward  perfection,  finally  reaches  the  state  of  Nirvana, 
where  the  individual  soul  is  merged  into  the  Infinite.  How  can  it 
be  differentiated  from  the  universal  spirit  if  it  has  attained  all  the 
attributes  of  divinity?  And  that  idea  seems  to  be  the  basis  of  our 
mistaken  worship  of  perfection — a  Nirvana  where  each  thing,  being 
absolutely  perfect,  loses  every  distinguishing  mark  of  character.  But 
is  not  our  Christian,  or  even  the  Pagan,  ideal  higher  than  this?  For 
even  the  Greek  gods,  cold  and  exquisite  as  they  were,  had  each  his 
individuality,  his  character,  his  separate  function.  Our  conception  of 
Heaven,  if  it  is  ever  formulated  nowadays,  has  this  differentiation  of 
individuality  strongly  accented  ;  though  the  most  orthodox  may  insist 
that  the  spirits  of  the  blessed  are  sanctified  with  perfection,  yet  he 
does  not  hold  it  as  a  necessary  dogma  that  they  are  therefore  all  alike, 
and  recast  in  a  common  mould.  He  still  dares  believe  in  that  infinite 
variety  which  Nature  has  taught  us  persists  throughout  the  universe. 

This  is  the  fundamental  difference  between  the  Oriental  and  the 
Occidental  point  of  view.  We  moderns  stand  for  the  supremacy  of 
character,  an  ineradicable  distinction  between  human  beings  which 
evolution  and  growth  does  not  diminish,  but  develops.  We  believe, 
you  and  I,  that  in  a  million  aeons  we  shall  be  as  different  one  from 
the  other  as  we  are  now;  that  faults  may  be  eradicated,  weaknesses 


79 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


lose  their  hold,  but  that  our  best  parts  will  increase  in 
virtue,  not  approaching  some  theoretical  standard,  but 
Of    always  and  forever  nearing  that  standard  which  is  set 
JmpttffCtion  f°r  ourselves. 

We  have  grown  out  of  our  admiration  for  the 
"copper-plate  hand"  in  penmanship;  we  recognize  the  fact  now, 
that  we  need  not  so  much  follow  the  specimens  in  the  copy-book  as 
to  make  the  best  of  what  is  distinctive  in  our  own  style  of  writing. 
And  this  is  a  type  of  what  our  conception  of  perfection,  perhaps, 
should  be.  Everything  should  be  significant  of  character,  should 
supplement  it,  translate  it,  explain  it.  In  the  Japanese  prints  you 
will  find  almost  every  face  with  the  same  meaningless  expression, 
every  feature  calm,  disguising  every  symptom  of  individuality.  It 
is  the  Oriental  pose,  the  Oriental  ideal  just  mentioned.  It  is  not 
considered  proper  to  express  either  joy  or  sorrow,  and  the  perfection 
of  poise  is  a  sublime  indifference. 

And  I  have  a  final  idea  that  may,  to  a  more  subtile  student  of 
^Esthetic,  seem  suggestive.     In  the  beautiful  parabola  described  by  the 
mounting  and  descending  sky-rocket  the  upward  and  downward  path  are 
not  quite  parallel.     The  stick  does  not  drop  vertically,  although  it  con- 
tinually approaches  that  direction.     In  other  words,  the  curve,  con- 
stantly approaching  a  straight  line,  is  beautiful  despite,  and,  indeed, 
perhaps  because  it  never  quite  attains  that  rectilinear  perfec- 
tion and  keeps  its  distinctive  character  to  the  end. 
It  is  beautiful   in   its  whole   progress, 
for  that  path  defines  the  curve 
of  the  parabola. 


80 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


flap's  flje  Ci)tng 


WOULD  you  rather  see  a  good  play  performed  by  poor 
actors,  or  a  poor  play  done  by  good  actors  ? "  asked 
Celestine. 

As  a  professor  of  the  romantic  view  of  life  and  a 
"  ghost-seer,"  there  is  but  one  answer  to  the  question.  "  The  play's 
the  thing!"  Acting  is  at  best  a  secondary  art — an  art,  that  is,  of 
interpretation,  though  we  as  critics  judge  it  of  itself  alone.  But,  to 
an  idealist,  no  play  ever  is,  or  can  be,  perfectly  performed.  As  we 
accept  the  conventions  of  stage  carpentry,  impossible  cottages,  flat 
trees,  "  property  "  rocks,  misfit  costumes  and  tinsel  ornament,  so  we 
must  gloss  over  the  imperfections  of  the  players,  and  accept  their 
struttings  and  mouthings  as  the  fantastic  accessories  of  stage-land. 
No  actor  that  ever  lived  ever  acted  throughout  a  whole  drama  as  a 
sane  human  being  would  act.  We  are  used  to  thinking  the  con- 
trary, but  the  compression  of  time  and  space  prevents  verisimili- 
tude. A  play  is  not  supposed  to  simulate  life  except  by  an  established 
convention.  Every  art  has  its  medium  and  its  limitation.  It  is 
indeed  a  limitation  that  makes  art  possible.  In  the  drama  the  limi- 
tation is  the  use  of  the  time  element. 

The  play's  the  thing — we  may  read  it  from  the  book  or  have 
it  recited  before  the  footlights,  but  the  lasting  delight  is  the  charm  of 
plot  that,  with  the  frail  assistance  of  the  actor,  finds  its  way  to  our 
emotions.  A  good  play  done  by  poor  actors,  then,  for  me,  if  I  must 
choose  between  the  two  evils. 

81 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


Fancy  creates ;  imagination  constructs.  The  child, 
sporting  ingenuously  with  both  these  powers,  dwells  in 
a  world  of  his  own,  either  induced  by  his  mastering 
fiat> or  remodelled  nearer  to  his  heart's  desire  from  the 
rags  and  fragments  at  hand.  In  his  toy  theatre  alone 
is  the  perfect  play  produced,  for  there  imagination  is  stage  manager, 
and  has  the  hosts  of  Wonderland  in  his  cast.  The  child  is  the  only 
perfect  romanticist.  He  has  the  keen,  fresh  eye  upon  nature ;  all  is 
play,  and  the  critical  faculty  is  not  yet  aroused.  So  in  a  way,  too, 
was  all  primitive  drama.  The  audience  at  Shakespearean  plays  heard 
but  noble  poesies,  saw  but  a  virile  dream  made  partly  visible,  like  a 
ghost  beckoning  away  their  thoughts.  So,  even  today,  is  the  Chinese 
theatre,  with  its  hundreds  of  arbitrary  conventions,  its  lack  of  scenery, 
and  its  artificial  eloquence.  The  veriest  coolie  knows  that  a  painted 
face  (a  white  nose,  stripes  and  crosses  on  the  cheeks)  does  but  por- 
tray a  masked  intention,  as  if  the  actor  bore  a  placard  writ  with  the 
word  "  Villain."  Forthwith,  all  the  rest  is  faery.  The  player  does 
but  lightly  guide  the  rein,  and  Pegasus  soars  free. 

So  no  play  can  be  perfectly  performed.  We  have  created  an 
artificial  standard  of  realism,  and  we  say  that  Bernhardt,  Duse  and 
Coquelin  portray  emotion  with  consummate  art.  It  has  been  agreed 
by  authorities  on  Esthetic  that  simulated  passion  surpasses  in  sug- 
gestive power  real  emotion.  The  actor  must  not  "  lose  himself  in 
his  part"  —  he  must  maintain  the  objective  relation.  None  the  less, 
however,  must  we,  as  audience,  supply  imagination  to  extend  the 
play  from  art  to  life.  From  a  romantic  point  of  view,  such  devotion 
to  realism  is  unnecessary.  We  are  swayed  by  the  wildest  absurdities 
of  melodrama,  alike  false  to  life  and  false  to  art,  and  we  accept  the 
operas  of  Wagner,  with  all  their  pasteboard  dragons  and  bull-necked 

82 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


heroes  belching  forth  technique,  as  impressive  stimuli 

to  the  imagination.    Even  through  such  crude  means, 

uplifted  either  by  passionate  brotherhood  or  upon  the    ^lap'0  t|)t 

wings  of  song,  we  are  wafted  far  and  fast.     The  play,       tEDinff  " 

oh  !   the  play's  the  thing ! 

For  see !  If  you  prefer  the  bad  play  performed  by  the  good 
actors,  why  not  go  to  life  itself?  What  else,  indeed,  is  life  ?  It  was 
the  old  Duke  in  Lewis  Carroll's  "  Sylvie  and  Bruno "  who  first 
pointed  this  out.  All  the  world's  a  stage  where  are  performed  the 
worst  of  badly  constructed  plays  —  plays  with  neither  unity  nor 
sequence  nor  climax,  but  performed  with  absolute  perfection.  Why 
waste  your  time  cursing  the  Adelphi,  when,  like  the  Duke,  you  can 
see  the  perfect  art  of  the  street  ?  The  railway  porter's  dialect  is  still 
convincing.  The  fat  woman  with  her  screaming  children  may  enter 
at  any  minute,  with  her  touches  of  wonderful  realism.  If  you  go  to 
the  theatre  for  acting  you  go  to  the  wrong  place  !  Watch  the  Pont 
Neuf  for  the  despairing  suicide,  lurk  in  Whitechapel,  visit  in  May- 
fair,  coquette  with  a  Spaniard's  sweetheart,  or  rob  a  Jew,  strike  an 
Englishman,  love  an  American  girl,  flirt  with  a  French  countess,  or 
watch  a  Samoan  beauty  at  the  salt  pools  catching  fish ;  but  try  not  to 
find  perfect  acting  behind  a  row  of  footlights ! 

But  if,  after  all,  the  play's  the  thing,  it  is  as  much  a  mistake  to 
look  for  real  drama  upon  the  street.  There  everything  is  incom- 
plete, and,  for  the  satisfaction  of  our  aesthetic  sense,  we  require  the 
threads  to  be  brought  together,  and  the  pattern  developed,  the  knots 
tied.  Our  contemplation  of  life  is  usually  analytic;  we  delight  in 
discovering  motives,  elementary  passions,  traits  of  character  and 
human  nature.  Our  joy  in  art,  on  the  other  hand,  arises  from  syn- 
thesis ;  we  love  to  see  effect  follow  cause,  and  events  march  logically, 


83 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


passions  work  themselves  out,  the  triumph  of  virtue 
and  justice.     Life,  as  we  see  it,  is  a  series  of  photo- 
tfl*    graphs.     The  drama  presents  these  successively  as  in 
a   biograph,   with   all    the    insignificant   intermediary 
glimpses  removed.    We  hunger  for  the  finished  story, 
the  poem    with    the  envoy.     For  this   reason  we  have   the  drama 
and  the  novel. 

And  now  Celestine  asks  me,  "  Would  you  rather  read  a  good 
story  poorly  written  than  a  poor  story  well  written  ? " 

The  question  is  as  fair  as  the  other,  though  not  quite  in  the 
same  case.  We  may  agree  that  acting  is  a  secondary  art,  but  litera- 
ture has  more  dignified  claims  to  considerations.  Here  we  arc  con- 
templating a  wedding  of  two  arts,  not  the  employment  of  one  by 
another.  One  might  as  well  say,  then,  "Would  you  rather  see  a 
good  man  married  to  a  bad  woman  or  the  reverse  ?  "  It  is  the  critic 
who  attempts  always  to  divorce  the  two. 

Yet,  as  in  almost  all  marriage,  where  two  arts  work  together  one 
is  usually  the  more  important.  One  may  have  one's  preferences, 
but  the  selection  of  that  art  which  embodies  an  idea,  rather  than  the 
one  which  aims  at  an  interpretation,  marks  the  romanticist's  point  of 
view.  One  art  must  be  masculine,  creative,  and  the  other  feminine 
and  adorning.  The  glory  of  the  one  is  strength,  of  the  other  beauty. 
For  me,  then,  the  manly  choice.  Give  me  the  good  story  badly 
told,  the  fine  song  poorly  sung,  the  virile  design  clumsily  carved, 
rather  than  the  opposite  cases.  The  necessity  of  such  a  choice  is 
not  a  mere  whim  of  Celestine's ;  it  is  a  problem  we  are  forced  to 
confront  every  day.  We  must  take  sides.  It  is  not  often,  even 
from  the  Philistine's  point  of  view,  that  we  have  the  good  thing  well 
done,  while  the  poor  thing  badly  done  we  have  everywhere.  Between 


84 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


flap's  t|)t 


these  limits  of  perfection  and  hopelessness,  then,  lies 
our  every-day  world  of  art,  and  there  continually  we 
must  make  our  choice. 

If  we  could  deal  with  abstractions,  there  would 
be  no  question  at  all,  and  undoubtedly  we  would  all 
prefer  to  enjoy  the  disincarnate  ideal  rather  than  any  incomplete 
embodiment,  no  matter  how  praiseworthy  the  presentment.  But  few 
of  us  are  good  enough  musicians  to  hear  the  music  in  our  mind's  ear 
when  we  look  over  the  score  of  an  opera  ;  few  of  us  can  dream  whole 
romances  like  Dumas,  without  putting  pen  to  paper  ;  few,  even,  can 
long  remember  the  blended  glories  of  a  sunset.  We  must  have  some 
tangible  sign  to  lure  back  memory  and  imagination,  and  if  we  recog- 
nize the  fact  that  such  symbols  are  symbols  merely,  conventions 
without  intrinsic  value  as  art,  then  we  have  the  eyes  of  the  child  and 
the  romantic  view  of  life. 
And  lastly,  Celestine  leaned  to  me  in  her  green  kimono  and 

said,  "Would    you  rather  see  a  pretty  girl   in    an   ugly 


gown,    or    an    ugly    girl    in    a   pretty 
Ah,  one   does   not   need  to    hold 
romantic  view  of  life  to  an- 
swer that  question ! 


gowni 
the 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


alone 


I  HAVE  lived  so  long  alone  now,  that  it  seems  almost  as  if  there 
were  two  of  me — one  who  goes  out  to  see  friends,  transacts 
business  and  buys  things,  and  one  who  returns,  dons  more 
comfortable  raiment,  lights  a  pipe,  and  dreams.     One  the  world 
knows,  the  other  no  one  knows  but  the  flies  on  the  wall. 

I  keep  no  pets,  since  these  would  enforce  my  keeping  regular 
hours ;  the  only  familiars  I  have,  therefore,  are  my  clock,  my  fire  and 
my  candles,  and  how  companionable  these  may  become  one  does  not 
know  who  does  not  live  alone.  They  owe  me  the  debt  of  life,  and 
repay  it  each  in  its  own  way,  faithfully  and  apparently  willingly.  I 
have  a  lamp,  too;  but  a  lamp  is  a  dull  thing,  especially  when  half- 
filled,  and  this  one  bores  me.  I  might  count  my  typewriter,  also, 
but  she  is  too  strenuous,  and  she  makes  me  too  impatient  by  her  in- 
ability to  spell.  Besides,  the  clock,  fire  and  candles  may,  with  no 
great  stretch  of  the  imagination,  be  readily  conceived  to  have  voli- 
tion, and,  once  started,  they  contribute  not  a  little  to  relieving  the 
tedium  of  living  alone. 

My  clock  is  always  the  same;  it  has  no  surprises.  It  may  go  a 
bit  fast  or  slow,  but  it  has  a  maddeningly  accurate  conscience,  and  its 
fidelity  in  ringing  the  eight-o'clock  alarm  proves  it  inhuman.  Still, 
it  lives  and  moves,  beating  a  sober  accompaniment  to  my  thoughts. 
Altogether,  it  is  not  unlike  a  faithful,  conscientious  servant,  never 
obtrusive,  always  punctual  and  obedient,  but  with  an  unremitting 
devotion  to  orders  that  is  at  times  exasperating.  Many  a  man 

86 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


has  stood  in  fear  and  shame  of  his  valet,  and  so  I  look 

askance  furtively  with  a  suppressed  curse  when   the 

hands  point  to  my  bath,  my  luncheon,  or  my  sortie 

into  town.     It  would  be  a  relief,  sometimes,  if  my  clock        **l&nt 

stopped,  were  I  not  sure  that  it  would  be  my  fault. 

But  my  fire  is  more  feminine,  full  of  moods  and  whims,  ardent, 
domestic  and  inspiring.  Now,  a  fire,  like  a  woman,  should  be  some- 
thing besides  beautiful,  though  in  many  houses  the  hearth  is  a  mere 
accessory.  It  should  have  other  uses  than  to  provide  mere  warmth, 
though  this  is  often  its  sole  reason  for  being.  Nor  should  it  be  a 
mere  culinary  necessity,  though  I  have  known  open  fires  to  be  kindled 
for  that  alone,  and  treated  as  domestic  servants.  In  my  house  the 
fire  has  all  these  functions  and  more,  for  it  is  my  friend  and  has  con- 
soled many  lonely  moments.  It  is  a  mistress,  full  of  unexpected 
fancies  and  vagaries.  It  has,  too,  a  more  sacred  quality,  for  it  is  an 
altar  where  I  burn  the  incense  of  memory  and  sacrifice  to  the  gods 
of  the  future.  It  is  both  human  and  divine,  a  tool  and  symbol  at  once. 

No  one,  I  think,  can  know  how  much  of  all  this  a  fire  can  be, 
who  has  not  himself  laid,  lighted  and  kindled  and  coaxed  it,  who 
has  not  utilized  its  services  and  accepted  its  consolations.  My  fire 
is,  however,  often  a  jealous  mistress.  She  warms  me  and  makes  my 
heart  glad,  but  I  dare  not  leave  her  side  on  a  wintry  day.  I  must 
keep  well  within  bounds,  hold  her  hand  or  be  chilled.  I  need  but 
little  urging!  I  pull  up  my  couch,  take  pencil  and  paper,  and 
she  twinkles  and  purrs  by  my  side,  casting  flickering  glances  at 
me  as  I  work. 

Not  till  the  flames  die  down  and  the  coals  glow  soberly  red  do 
I  find  the  more  practical  pleasures  of  friendship  and  housewifely  ser- 
vice. Now  my  fire  plays  the  part  of  cook,  and,  in  her  proper  sphere, 


87 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


outdoes  every  stove  or  range  ever  lighted.  A  little 
duck  laid  gently  across  the  grate,  the  kettle  whistling 
w-lt^  steamj  an(j  ^  coffee-pot  ready  —  what  bachelor 
was  ever  attended  by  more  charming  handmaiden  than 
I  by  my  little  open  fire  ?  She  will  heat  an  iron  or 
shaving-water  as  gracefully,  too,  waiting  upon  me  with  a  jocund  will- 
ingness. No  servant  could  be  so  companionable.  Still,  she  must 
be  humoured  as  one  must  always  humour  a  woman.  Try  to  drive 
her,  or  make  her  feel  that  she  is  but  a  slave,  and  you  shall  see  how 
quickly  she  resents  it.  There  is  a  psychological  moment  for  broil- 
ing on  an  open  fire,  and  postponement  is  fatal.  It  takes  a  world  of 
petting  and  poking  to  sooth  her  caprice  when  she  is  in  a  blazing 
temper,  but  remember  her  sex,  and  she  melts  in  a  glow  like  a 
mollified  child. 

Kindling  and  lighting  my  fire  is  a  ritual.  I  cannot  go  about  it 
thoughtlessly  or  without  excitement.  The  birth  of  the  first  curling 
flame  inspires  me,  for  the  heart  becomes  an  altar  sacred  to  the  house- 
hold gods.  If  the  day  offers  the  least  plausible  pretext  for  a  fire,  I 
light  one  and  sit  down  in  worship.  I  resent  a  warm  morning,  when 
economy  struggles  with  desire.  Luckily  my  studio  is  at  the  north 
of  the  house,  and,  no  matter  if  the  sun  is  warm  abroad,  there  is 
a  cool  corner  waiting  where  a  fire  needs  no  apology.  The  sun 
creeps  in  toward  noon  and  puts  out  the  flames,  but  all  the  morning 
I  enjoy  the  blaze. 

In  the  evening  the  fire  becomes  absolutely  necessary,  and  pro- 
vides both  heat  and  light,  giving  a  new  life  of  its  own  to  the  dark- 
ness of  the  room.  Then  I  become  a  Parsee,  put  on  my  sacerdotal 
robes  (for  such  lonely  priestcraft  requires  costume),  and  fall  into  a 
reverie.  For  my  sacrifices,  old  letters  feed  the  flames.  They  say  that 

88 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


coal,  in  burning,  gives  back  the  stored  sunlight  of 
past  ages.  What  lost  fires  burn,  then,  when  love- 
letters  go  up  in  smoke  to  illumine  for  one  brief,  last 
instant  the  shadows  of  memory  !  JftlOlW 

My  candles  partake  of  the  nature  of  both  clock 
and  fire.  They  are  to  be  depended  upon,  when  let  alone,  to  burn 
just  six  hours,  marking  the  time  like  the  ticking  pendulum,  but 
they  give  light  and  warmth,  too,  in  their  own  way,  in  gentle  imitation 
of  the  fire.  They  also  have  moods  —  less  petulant  than  the  fire's 
—  but  they  require  as  little  attention  as  the  clock.  The  fire  seems 
immortal ;  though  the  coals  fade  into  ashes,  the  morning's  resurrec- 
tion seems  to  continue  the  same  personality,  and  the  same  flames 
seem  to  be  incarnated  —  living  again  the  same  old  life.  But  the  life 
of  a  candle  seems  visibly  limited  to  a  definite  space  of  time,  and  its 
end  is  clearly  to  be  seen.  In  that  aspect  it  seems  more  human  and 
lovable  than  the  fire  —  a  candle  is  more  like  a  petted  animal,  whose 
short  life  seems  to  lead  to  nothing  beyond.  We  may  put  more 
coals  on  the  fire,  and  continue  its  existence  indefinitely,  but  the 
candle  is  doomed.  Putting  another  one  in  the  socket  does  not 
renew  a  previous  existence.  But,  if  it  is  a  short  life,  it  is  a  merry 
one,  and  its  service  is  glad  and  generous.  My  little  army  of  candles 
is  constantly  being  replenished.  Like  brave  and  loyal  soldiers,  they 
lay  down  their  lives  gallantly  in  my  cause,  and  new  ones  fill  up  the 
vacant  ranks,  fighting  the  powers  of  darkness. 

This  is  my  bachelor  reverie.     But  high  noon  approaches,  and 

my  metamorphosis  is  at  hand.    Now  the  sun  has  struck 

the  fire-place  with  a  lance  of  light,  and  I,  that 

other  I,  must  rise,  dress  and  out 

into  the  world ! 

89 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


Cartomanta 


WITH  something  of  the  excitement  Alice  felt  when  she 
crawled  through  the  looking-glass,  I  used  to  pore  over 
my  atlas.     Geography  was  for  me  a  pastime  rather  than 
a  study.     There  was  one  page  in  the  book  where  the 
huge  bulging  expanse  of  the  United  States  lay,  and  there,  on  the 
extreme  left  hand  of  the  vari-coloured  patchwork  of  States  and  terri- 
tories, was  the  abode  of  romance  and  adventure — a  long  and  narrow 
patch  tinted  pink,  curving  with  the  Pacific  Ocean,  and  ribbed  with 
the  fuzzy  haschures  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  Mountains.     This  was  the 
Ultima  Thule  of  my  dreams,  beyond  which  my  sober-minded  hopes 
dared  not  stray. 

Further  on  in  the  book  I  saw  Europe,  irregular  with  ragged 
peninsulas  and  bays,  Asia,  vast  and  shapeless,  with  the  great  blue 
stretch  of  Siberia  atop,  and  the  clumsy  barren  yellow  triangle  of 
Africa.  But  these  foreign  countries  were,  to  my  young  imagination, 
as  inaccessible  as  Fairyland ;  they  did  not  properly  come  into  the 
world  of  possibility.  They  were  as  unreal  as  ghosts,  remote  as  the 
Feudal  Ages,  and  I  put  them  by  with  a  sigh  as  hopeless.  The  world 
is  a  big  place  to  the  eyes  of  a  child,  and  all  beyond  his  ken  but 
names.  How  could  I  know  that  the  end  of  the  century  was  even 
then  whirling  me  toward  wonders  that  even  my  Arabian  Magi 
would  not  have  thought  possible  ?  But  today,  in  this  far  Western 
town,  then  but  a  semi-barbarous  camp  of  gold  miners,  I  have  seen 
an  airship  half-completed  upon  the  stocks,  and  this  morning,  in  my 

90 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


own  room,  I  rang  up  Celestine  and  talked  with  her 
over  the  wire  a  hundred  miles  away ! 

Maps  were  my  favourite  playgrounds,  and  so  real 
were  they  that  it  almost  seemed  that,  with   a  suffi-        Btftnta 
ciently   powerful  microscope,  I  might  see  the   very 
inhabitants  living  their  strangely  costumed  customs.     There  was  a 
black  dot  on  my  fascinating  pink  patch  marked  San  Francisco,  and 
now,  that  dream  come  true,  I  try  to  see  this  city  with  the  eyes  of 
my  childhood,  and  wonder  that    I    am    really  here.     To   get   the 
strangeness  of  the  chance  I  have  to  think  back  and  back  till  I  see 
that  map  stretched  out  before  the  boy,  and  follow  his  finger  across 
the  tiers  of  States  that  run  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific. 

Everyone  who  has  not  travelled  much  must  feel  the  excitement 
that  maps  give  when  intently  studied.  No  one  has  been  everywhere, 
and  for  each  some  unvisited  spot  must  charm  him  with  its  romantic 
possibilities.  But  there  are  certain  cities  almost  universally  enticing 
to  the  imagination — the  world's  great  meeting-places,  where,  if  one 
but  waits  long  enough,  one  can  find  anybody.  London,  Cairo, 
Bombay,  Hongkong,  San  Francisco,  New  York — these  are  the  jewels 
upon  the  girdle  that  surrounds  the  globe.  To  know  these  places  is 
to  have  lived  to  the  full  limit  of  Anglo-Saxon  privilege. 

But  the  true  cartomaniac  is  not  content  with  ready-made  coun- 
tries; he  must  build  his  own  lands.  How  many  kingdoms  and 
empires  have  I  not  drawn  from  the  tip  of  my  pencil !  Now,  the 
achievement  of  a  plausible  state  is  not  so  easy  as  it  might  appear. 
There  is  nothing  so  difficult  as  to  create,  out  of  hand,  an  interesting 
coast  line.  Try  and  invent  an  irregular  shore  that  shall  be  convinc- 
ing, and  you  will  see  how  much  more  cleverly  Nature  works  than  you. 
Here  is  where  accident  surpasses  design.  Spill  a  puddle  of  coloured 

91 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


water  on  a  sheet  of  paper  and  pound  it  with  your  fist, 
and  lo,  an  outline  is  produced  which  you  could  not 
excel  in  a  day's  hard  work  with  your  pencil ! 

The  establishment  of  a  boundary  line,  too,  re- 
quires much  thought  in  order  that  your  frontier 
interlocks  well  with  your  neighbours'.  Your  rivers  must  be  well 
studied,  your  mountains  planned,  and  your  cities  located  according  to 
the  requirements  of  the  game.  You  must  name  your  places,  you 
must  calculate  your  distances,  and  you  must  erase  and  correct  many 
times  before  you  can  rival  the  picturesque  possibilities  of  such  a  land 
as  India,  for  instance,  which,  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  sentimen- 
tal cartographer,  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  states. 

If  such  an  effort  is  too  difficult  for  the  beginner,  one  might 
begin  with  a  country  of  which  something  is  known,  yet  which  never 
has  been  charted.  "Gulliver's  Travels,"  for  instance,  contains 
information  of  many  lands  that  should  be  drawn  to  scale.  Lilliput, 
Brobdignag,  Laputa,  and  the  land  of  horses  would  alone  make  a 
very  interesting  atlas.  The  geography  of  Fairyland  affords  charming 
opportunities  for  the  draughtsman.  For  myself,  I  prefer  the  magical 
territory  of  the  Arthurian  legends,  and  I  have  platted  Sir  Launcelot's 
Isle,  with  Joyous  Gard  at  the  northern  end,  high  over  the  sea. 
There  is  a  pleasaunce,  a  wood,  a  maze,  and  a  wharf  jutting  out  into 
a  shallow,  smiling  water,  while  the  lists  occupy  a  promontory  to  the 
south. 

Oh,  the  opportunities  are  many  for  the  cartomaniac !  Who 
has  mapped  Utopia,  Atlantis,  Alice's  Wonderland,  or  the  countries 
of  the  Faerie  Queene  ?  Who  has  reconstructed  the  plans  of  Troy  ? 
And  there  are  other  allegorical  lands,  too,  that  should  be  mapped. 
I  have  had  a  try  myself  at  the  modern  "  Bohemia,"  and  have  taken 

92 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


the  liberty  of  shewing  within  its  much-maligned 
borders  Arcady  and  the  Forest  of  Arden.  I  have 
even  planned  Millamours,  the  city  of  a  thousand 
loves,  and  I  am  now  attempting  to  draw  a  map  of  the 
State  of  Literature  in  the  year  1902. 

There  are  many  celebrated  edifices,  too,  that  might  be  trifled 
with.  I  have  a  friend,  an  architect,  who  has  completed  the  Castle  of 
Zenda,  and  he  is  now  occupied  with  Circe's  palace,  with  a  fine  eye  to 
the  decorative  effect  of  the  pig-pens.  Think  of  laying  out  the  gar- 
dens, grottoes,  and  palaces  of  the  Arabian  Nights !  Why  has  the 
Castle  of  Otranto  been  neglected — and  Udolpho,  and  Castle  Danger- 
ous, and  the  Moated  Grange  ? 

Many  novelists,  and,  I  think,  most  writers  of  pure  romance, 
have  played  this  game.  Stevenson,  dreaming  in  his  father's  office, 
drew  the  map  of  Treasure  Island,  and  from  that  chart  came  forth, 
hint  by  hint,  the  suggestions  for  his  masterpiece.  Maurice  Hewlett 
drew  a  plat  of  the  ancient  marches  and  forests  where  the  Forest 
Lovers  wandered,  and  it  is  a  pity  he  did  not  publish  it  in  more 
detail.  This  is  one  of  the  graphical  solutions  of  story  writing,  a 
queer,  anomalous  method  whereby  the  symbol  suggests  the  concept. 
The  cheaper  magazines  often  use  old  cuts,  and  request  some  hack  to 

write  a  story  to    fit   the   illustration.     But   the  map  is  an 

abstraction ;  its  revelations  are  cabalistic,  not  definite. 

A  good  map  is  a  stage  set  for  romantic  fiction, 

ready  for  anybody  who  can  write 

or     dream      the      play. 


93 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


Cije  Science  of  ^flatter? 


TIME  was  when  people  were  less  sophisticated  and  almost 
everybody   could    be   flattered.    A  compliment  was   the 
pinch  of  salt  that  could  be  placed  upon  any  bird's  tail. 
But  such  game  is  scarcer  now,  and  to  capture  one's  quarry 
one  has  to  practice  all  the  arts  of  modern  social  warfare.     We  have, 
for  instance,  been  taught  to  believe,  time  out  of  mind,  that  women 
are  especially  susceptible  to  this  saccharine  process ;  that  one  had  but 
to  make  a  pretty  speech,  and  her  conquest  was  assured.     But  what 
lady  nowadays  can  take  a  compliment  without  bridling?     It  is  as 
much  as  a  man's  reputation  is  worth  to  make  a  plain,  straightforward 
statement  of  approbation.     He  must  veil  his  meaning  so  that  it  can 
be  discovered  only  by  a  roundabout  reflection.     Whether  it  be  true 
or  not,  he  is  held  offensively  responsible  for  the  blush  with  which  it 
is  received. 

So,  to  be  successful,  one  must  be  politic  and  tactful ;  one  must 
adopt  the  indirect  method,  and,  above  all,  one  must  escape  the  obvi- 
ous. To  say  what  has  been  said  many  times  before  defeats  the  very 
purpose,  whether  it  be  good  or  evil,  for  which  we  flatter.  The  artist 
discards  the  hackneyed  compliment,  and  endeavours  to  place  his 
arrow  in  a  spot  that  has  never  been  hit  before.  He  will  compliment 
a  poet  upon  his  drawings  and  a  painter  upon  his  verses.  If  a  woman, 
ordinarily  plainly  dressed,  has  a  single  effective  garment,  does  he 
compliment  her  upon  that  particular  costume  ?  By  no  means.  Sub- 
tilty  demands  that  he  flatter  her  by  pointing  out  some  interesting 

94 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


feature  in  one  of  her  common  frocks,  without  hinting 

that  it  is  surprising  to  see  her  particularly  well  clad. 

Such  compliments  have  the  flavour  of  novelty,  and  are    fectaUf  Of 

treasured  up  by  the  recipient,  to  be  quoted  long  after      jflatUtp 

the  donor  has  forgotten  them. 

The  tribute  of  unexpected  praise  is  more  grateful  to  a  person 
than  the  reward  for  which  he  works  hardest  and  is  most  confident. 
It  discovers  to  him  new  and  pleasing  attributes.  It  has  all  the  zest 
and  relish  that  the  particular  always  has  more  than  the  general.  And, 
besides,  for  the  person  who  happens  to  light  upon  some  little  favourite 
trick  of  individuality,  and  to  notice  and  to  comment  upon  it,  the 
reward  is  great.  Such  a  flatterer  is,  in  the  heart  of  the  flattered  one, 
throned  with  the  authority  of  discernment;  he  is  considered  for- 
ever after  as  a  critic  of  the  first  importance.  Everyone  has  a  hobby, 
an  idiosyncrasy,  visible  or  invisible ;  it  is  the  art  of  the  flatterer  to 
discover  it,  and  his  science  to  use  it  to  his  own  ends. 

Flattery  is,  however,  an  edged  tool,  and  must  be  used  with  care. 
It  is  not  everyone  who  has  the  tact  to  decide  at  a  glance  just  how 
much  his  victim  will  stand.  He  may  know  enough,  perhaps,  to 
praise  the  author  of  a  successful  book  for  some  other  one  of  his 
works  which  has  not  attained  a  popular  vogue ;  he  may  have  the 
discretion  to  banter  men  about  their  success  with  the  opposite  sex, 
and  to  accuse  women  of  cleverness ;  but  for  all  that  he  may  often 
misjudge  his  object,  and  give  embarrassment  if  not  actual  affront. 
For  all  such  the  safest  weapon  is  the  written  word. 

This  is  the  ambush  from  which  your  prey  cannot  escape.  If  a 
letter  of  praise,  of  compliment,  or  even  of  deliberate  flattery,  is  made 
decently  interesting,  if  it  is  not  too  grossly  cloying  even  for  private 
perusal,  it  cannot  fail  to  count.  It  has  to  be  paid  for  by  no  blush, 

95 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


no  awkward  moment,  no  painful  conspicuous  self-con- 
sciousness,  no  hypocritical  denial.  It  strikes  an  unde- 
Of  fending  victim,  and  brings  him  down  without  a  struggle. 
Such  tributes  of  praise  can  be  read  and  reread  without 
mortification.  It  is  a  sweet-smelling  incense  that 
burns  perpetually  before  the  shrine  of  vanity.  One  compliment  writ- 
ten down  in  black  and  white  is  worth  any  number  of  spoken  words, 
and  the  trouble  that  has  been  taken  to  commit  such  praise  to  paper 
gives  the  offering  an  added  interest  and  importance.  Anything  that 
can  be  said  can  be  written,  from  the  eulogy  of  a  lady's  slipper  to  the 
appreciation  of  a  solo  on  the  harp.  You  may  be  sure  that  any 
unconventionality  of  manner  will  be  atoned  for  by  the  seduction  of 
a  honeyed  manner.  Stevenson,  in  his  playful  "  Decalogue  for  Gen- 
tlemen," set  down  as  his  first  canon,  "Thou  shalt  not  write  an 
anonymous  letter,"  but  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  he  would  have 
excepted  an  unsigned  note  of  admiration. 

The  element  of  time,  in  flattery,  too,  is  often  disregarded.  Few 
would-be  flatterers  understand  the  increased  influence  of  a  compli- 
ment deferred.  It  is  again  the  same  case  of  the  misuse  of  the  obvious. 
When  your  friend's  book  appears,  or  his  picture  is  displayed,  there 
are  enough  to  compliment  him  on  the  spot,  but  your  own  sympa- 
thetic endorsement,  delayed  a  few  months,  or  even  iterated,  comes  to 
him  when  he  is  least  expecting  the  compliment.  He  is  off  his  guard, 
and  the  shot  goes  home.  When  I  give  Celestine  a  present  she 
thanks  me  immediately,  of  course,  but  that  is  not  the  last  of  it.  In 
every  third  letter  or  so  I  am  reminded  of  her  gratitude  and  my 
kindness. 

There  is,  however,  a  flattery  of  manner  as  well  as  one  of  matter. 
Celestine,  to  whose  wise  counsels  I  am  indebted  for  many  a  short  cut 

96 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


in  the  making  of  friends,  once  laid  down  for  me  the 
following  rules  for  dealing  with  women : 

First,  be  intellectual  with  pretty  women.  &CittW£  Of 

Second,   be   frivolous   with    intellectual   women.       jflatUt? 

Third,  be  serious  and  empresse  with  young  girls. 

Fourth,  be  saucy  and  impudent  with  old  ladies.  Call  them  by 
their  first  names,  if  necessary. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  such  audacious  methods  require 
boldness  and  sureness  of  touch,  especially  in  the  application  of  the 
fourth  rule.  But  even  that,  when  attempted  with  spirit  and  assur- 
ance, has  given  miraculous  results.  In  a  case  where  a  woman's  age 
is  in  question,  action  speaks  far  louder  than  words. 

Perhaps  the  most  successful  method  of  flattery  is  that  of  the 
person  who  makes  the  fewest  compliments.  To  gain  a  name  for 
brusqueness  and  frankness  is,  in  a  way,  to  attain  a  reputation  for 
sincerity.  Whether  this  is  just  or  not,  it  is  undoubtedly  true  that 
the  occasional  unlocked  for  praise  of  such  a  person  acquires  an  exag- 
gerated importance  and  worth.  This  system  is  similar  to  that  of  the 
billiard-player  who  goes  through  the  first  half  of  his  game  wretchedly 
in  order  to  surprise  his  opponent  with  the  dexterity  of  his  shots  later 
on.  But  it  is  an  amateurish  ruse,  and  is  soon  discovered  and  dis- 
counted at  its  true  value.  Yet  in  a  way,  too,  it  is  justifiable,  since 
unpleasant  comments  are  usually  accepted  as  candid,  while  pleasant 
ones  alone  are  suspected. 

There  is  a  kind  of  conscious  vanity  to  which  flattery  comes  wel- 
comely,  however  patent  the  hyperboles  may  appear.  To  such  per- 
sons, and  there  are  many,  a  certain  amount  of  adulation  oils  the 
mental  machine.  They  do  not  believe  all  that  is  said,  but  prefer,  on 
the  whole,  to  be  surrounded  by  pleasant  fictions  rather  than  by 

97 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


Many 


unpleasant  facts.     They  prefer  harmony  to  honesty, 
and,  though  the  oil  on  the  troubled  waters  of  life  does 
Of    not   dispel   the  storm,  it   makes    easier  sailing.     To 
others,  especially  if  they  be  creators  in  any  art,  com- 
pliments stimulate  and  impel  to  their  best  endeavour. 
a  man  has  achieved  a  masterpiece  chiefly  because  a  woman 
declared  him  capable  of  it. 

The  question  of  the  object  for  which  flattery  is  employed  is  here 
beside  the  mark.  It  may  be  used  or  misused  ;  it  may  be  true  or 
false  of  itself,  although,  to  be  sure,  the  word  flattery  has  attained  an 
evil  significance  and  has  come  to  stand  for  counterfeit  approval.  All 
that  has  been  said,  however,  applies  to  one  as  well  as  to  the  other. 
Even  when  praise  has  the  least  foundation  in  fact,  it  may  prove  bene- 
ficial to  the  person  flattered,  arousing  a  pride  which  creates  the 
admired  quality  that  was  wholly  lacking.  Thus  I  have  known  a 
man  notorious  for  his  vulgarity  stimulated  to  a  very  creditable  polite- 
ness by  the  most  undeserved  and  insincere  compliment  upon  his  table 
manners. 

I    have    used   the   three   testimonials    of  admiration    as 

synonymous,  but  Celestine  says  that  praise  is 

a   rightful    fee,   a   compliment    is 

a  tip,  and  that  flattery 

is    bribery. 


98 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


Romance  Cn  &oute 


HOW  tired  I  am   of  the  question,  "  How  do   you    like 
London  ? "  and  "  How  do  you  like  New  York? "  "  Would 
you   rather   live   in    San    Francisco  or  Paris?"     Why, 
indeed,  should  I  not  like  London,  Kalamazoo,  Patagonia, 
Bombay,  or  any  other  place  where  live  men  and  women  walk  the 
streets,  eat,  drink,  and  are  merry  ?     How  can  I  say  whether  El  Dorado 
is  better  than  Arcady,  or  a  square  room  more  convenient  than  an 
oblong  one?     Every  living  place  has  its  own  fascination,  its  mys- 
teries, its  characteristic  delights.     Ask  me,  rather,  if  I  can  understand 
London,  if  I  can  catch  the  point  of  view  of  the  French  concierge,  if  I 
comprehend  the  slang  and  bustle  of  Chicago  ?     Like  them  ?     Show 
me  the  town  I  cannot  like  !     Know  them  ?     Ah,  that  is  different ! 
This  is  the  charm  of  travel  —  to  keep  up  the  feeling  of  strange- 
ness to  the  end,  never  to  take  things  for  granted  or  let  them  grow 
stale,  to  see  them  always  as  though  one  had  never  seen  them  before. 
Then,  and  only  then,  can  we  see  things  as  they  really  are.     When  I 
become  cosmopolitan,  world-old,  blast,  when  I  think  and  speak  in 
all  languages,  I  shall  fly  to  some  deserted  island  to  study  the  last, 
most  impenetrable  enigma  —  myself. 

But  meanwhile,  I  can  purchase  romance  retail,  at  the  mere  cost 
of  a  railway  ticket.  I  can  close  my  eyes  in  one  city,  and  wake  next 
morning  in  its  mental  antipode.  Romance  requires  only  a  new  point 
of  view;  it  is  the  art  of  getting  fresh  glimpses  of  the  commonplace. 
One  need  not  be  transported  to  the  days  of  chivalry,  one  need  not 

99 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


even  travel ;    one    need  only  begin    life   anew  every 
morning,  and  look  out  upon  the  world  unfamiliarly  as 
(;jle    Cj1jjcj    does.     One    must    be    born    a  discoverer. 
1K-OUW     Thus  one  may  keep  youth,  for  the  sport  never  loses 
colour.     One  game  won  or  lost,  the  next  has  an  equal 
interest,  though  we  use  the  same  counters  and  the  same  board.     The 
combinations  are  always  fresh. 

Still,  though  one  may  find  this  fountain  of  perpetual  youth  in 
one's  breakfast  glass,  the  obvious  conventional  method  is  to  go  forth 
for  the  adventure,  and  get  this  famed  elixir  at  some  foreign  and  well- 
advertised  spring.  For  this  purpose  tourists  travel,  taking  part  in 
a  pilgrimage  of  whose  meaning  and  proper  method  they  are  wholly 
ignorant.  In  their  boxes  and  portmanteaus  they  pack,  not  hopes  of 
mystery,  faith  in  the  compelling  marvels  of  the  world,  nor  the  won- 
der of  strange  sights;  but  instead,  fault-finding  comparisons,  and 
prejudice  against  all  manners  not  their  own.  They  do  not  see,  in 
the  omnibus  of  London,  the  automobile  of  Paris,  the  electric  trolley 
of  New  York  and  the  cable  car  of  San  Francisco,  the  pregnant  evi- 
dence of  several  points  of  view  on  life,  art  and  commerce,  but  they 
perceive  only  grotesque  contrasts  with  their  own  particular  means  of 
locomotion.  They  do  not  delight  in  the  incomprehensible  hurly- 
burly  of  civilization  that  has  produced  the  City  Man,  the  Bounder, 
the  Coster,  the  Hoodlum,  Hooligan  and  Sundowner,  nor  do  they 
attempt  to  solve  the  mystery  or  get  the  meat  from  such  strange  shells. 
Instead,  they  see  only  the  clerk  at  the  lunch-counter  bolting  his  chops 
and  half- pint,  the  incredible  waistcoat  of  the  pretentious  blagueur,  or 
the  buttons  and  "  moke "  of  the  ruffling  D'Artagnan  of  the  Old 
Kent-road. 

So  the  tourist  travels  with  his  eyes  shut,  while  the  true  traveller 

100 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


has  a  lookout  on  life,  keen  for  new  sensations.  To  do 
things  in  Rome  as  the  Romans  do,  that  is  his  motto. 
He  must  eat  spaghetti  with  his  fingers,  his  rice  and 
chopped  suey  with  chop-sticks,  or  he  fails  of  their  subtle  *n 
relish.  He  calls  no  Western  town  crude  or  uncivil- 
ized, but  he  tries  to  cultivate  a  taste  for  cocktails,  that  he  may  imbibe 
the  native  fire  of  occidental  enthusiasm.  In  the  East  he  is  an 
Oriental;  he  changes  his  mind,  his  costume  and  his  spectacles 
wherever  he  goes,  and  underneath  the  little  peculiarities  of  custom 
and  environment,  he  finds  the  essential  realities  of  life. 

To  taste  all  this  fine,  crisp  flavour  of  living  —  not  to  write  about 
it  or  fit  it  to  sociological  theories,  but  to  live  it,  understand  it,  be  it — 
this  is  the  art  of  travel,  the  art  of  romance,  the  art  of  youth.  But 
there  is  no  Baedeker  to  guide  such  a  sentimental  tourist  through 
such  experiences  as  these.  It  takes  a  lively  glance  to  recognize  a 
man  disguised  in  a  frock  coat,  and  to  find  him  blood  brother  to  the 
Esquimau ! 

Well,  there  is  a  place  in  Utah  on  the  Central  Pacific  Railroad 
called  Monotony.  The  settlement  consists  of  a  station,  a  water- 
tank,  and  a  corrugated  iron  bunk-house.  The  level  horizon  swings 
round  a  full  circle,  enclosing  a  flat,  arid  waste,  bisected  by  an  unfenced 
line  of  rails,  straight  as  a  stretched  string.  The  population  consists 
of  a  telegraph  operator,  a  foreman,  and  six  section  hands.  Yet  I 
dare  say  I  would  like  to  stay  there  awhile,  on  the  way,  and  perhaps  I 

would  taste  some  charm  that  London  never  gave.     I  am 

not  so  sure  that  but  that  before  I  took  wing 

again  I  might  not  like  it,  in  some 

respects,    better     even 

than   Paris. 

101 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


Cfje  Ct>se  of  flje 


TO  FIND  the   colonial  or  the  provincial   more  cultured, 
better   educated  in    life   and    keenlier  cognizant   of  the 
world's    progress    than    the    ordinary   metropolitan,  is   a 
common  enough  paradox.     Class  for  class,  the  outlander 
has  more  energy,  greater  sapience  and  a  truer  zest  of  intellect  than 
the  citizen  at  the  capital.     By  the  outlander  is  not  meant,  however, 
the  mere  suburban  or  rural  inhabitant,  but  the  dweller  at  the  outpost 
of  civilization,  the  picket  on  the  edge  of  the  world. 

Let  us  grant  that,  in  the  gross,  every  new  community  must  be 
crude — it  takes  time  to  grow  ivy  over  the  walls,  to  soften  the 
primary  colours  into  harmonious  tones,  to  smooth  off  the  rough 
edges, — but  let  us  also  grant  that,  at  all  the  back  doorways  of 
empire,  in  far-away  corners  of  the  earth,  are  assembled  little  coteries 
of  men  and  women  who,  by  reason  of  their  very  isolation,  rather 
than  despite  it,  have  made  themselves  cosmopolitan,  catholic, 
eclectic,  and  stand  ever  ready  to  welcome,  each  in  his  own  polite 
dialect  and  idiom,  the  astonished  traveller  who  thinks  he  has  left 
all  that  is  great  and  good  behind. 

This  compensation  is,  indeed,  a  natural  law.  If  we  cut  back 
half  the  shoots  of  a  shrub,  the  surviving  sprouts  will  be  more 
vigorous.  The  deprivation  of  one  sense  renders  the  others  more 
acute.  Make  it  hard  for  an  ambitious  lad  to  obtain  an  education, 
and,  working  alone  by  candle-light,  he  will  outstrip  the  student 
with  greater  advantages.  So  it  is  with  the  colonial  who  realizes 

102 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


his  poverty  of  artistic  and  intellectual  resources.     He 

must,   in    self-defense   and    to    compensate    for    his 

isolation,  make  friends  with  the  world  at  large,  and         p( 

his    mental   vision,   accustomed   to    long    ranges   of 

sight,   becomes   sharp    and    subtile.      To   avoid    the 

reproach  of  provincialism   he  studies  the  great  centers  of  thought 

and   watches    eagerly  for  the   first  signs   of  new  growths  in  fads, 

fashions,  art  and   politics.      It  is  for  this  reason   that  the  British 

colonial  is  more  British  than  the  Englishman  at  home. 

Plunged  in  the  midst  of  the  turmoil  of  every-day  excitements, 
the  dwellers  in  great  cities  lose  much  of  the  true  and  fine  signifi- 
cance of  things.  A  thousand  enterprises  are  beginning,  and  amidst 
a  myriad  essays  the  headway  of  yesterday's  novelty  is  lost  in  the 
struggle  of  today's  agonists.  The  little,  temporary,  local  success 
seems  big  with  import,  and  the  slower  development  of  more  serious 
and  permanent  virtues  is  ignored.  Things  are  seen  so  closely 
that  they  are  out  of  true  proportion,  and  they  are  seen  through 
media  of  personality  that  diffract  and  magnify. 

But  the  provincial,  far  from  this  complicated  aspect  of  intel- 
lectual life,  gains  greatly  in  perspective.  Separated  by  great  space, 
he  is,  in  a  way,  separated  by  time  also,  and  he  sees  what  another 
generation  will  perhaps  see  in  the  history  of  today.  For  he  watches 
not  only  literary  London,  that  tiniest  and  most  garrulous  of  gos- 
siping villages,  but  a  dozen  other  hives  of  thought  as  well,  and 
from  his  very  distance  can  the  more  easily  discern  the  first  signs 
of  pre-eminence.  His  ears  are  not  ringing  with  a  myriad  petty 
clamours,  but  he  can  hear,  rising  above  the  multitudinous  hum,  the 
voice  of  those  who  sing  clearest.  The  connoisseur  in  art  views  a 
painting  from  across  the  hall — the  lover  of  music  does  not  sit  too 

IO3 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


close  to  the  orchestra — and  so  the  intelligent  looker- 
C£dg£  on  at  life  does  not  come  too  often  in  familiar  touch 

Of  t$£        with  the  aspirants  for  fame.     Living,  as  one   might 

dClOtld        say,  upon  a  hill,  the  stranger  thus  gets   the  range, 

volume  and  trend  of  human  activities,  and  sees  their 

movements,   like    those    of  armies    marching    below    him,   though 

they  seem  as    ants,   so    far  away.     He   can  trace  the  direction  of 

waves  of  emotion  that  follow  round  the  earth  like  tides  of  the  sea. 

In  every  community,  however  small  or  remote,  there  are  a 
few  who  delight  in  this  comprehensive  view  of  things,  who  keep 
up  with  the  times,  and,  so  far  as  their  immediate  neighbours  are 
concerned,  are  ahead  of  the  prevailing  mode.  As  the  meteorologist, 
studying  the  reports  from  North,  South,  East  and  West,  can  trace 
the  progress  of  storm  and  wind,  so  these  intelligent  observers  can 
predict  what  will  be  talked  about  next,  and  how  soon  the  first 
murmurs  will  reach  their  shores.  Their  cosmic  laboratory  is  the 
club  library  table,  with  its  journals  and  periodicals  from  all  over 
the  world. 

The  first  hint  of  a  new  success  in  literature  comes  from  the 
London  weeklies,  and  then,  if  the  British  opinion  is  corroborated 
by  American  favour,  the  New  York  papers  take  up  the  note  of 
praise,  and  one  may  follow  the  progress  of  a  novel's  triumph 
across  three  thousand  five  hundred  miles  of  continent,  or  see 
the  word  pass  from  colony  to  colony,  over  the  whole  empire. 
The  Londoner  sees  but  the  bubbles  at  the  spring — the  pioneer  by 
the  Pacific  watches  the  course  of  a  mighty  stream  increasing  in 
depth  and  width.  Tomorrow,  or  in  three  months,  the  vogue  will 
reach  his  own  town,  and  he  will  smile  to  see  all  tongues  wag  of  the 
latest  literary  success. 

IO4 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


So  it  is  with  art,  so  it  is  with  fashions,  with  the 
drama  and  with  every  fad  and  foible,  from  golf  and 
Babism  to  the  last  song  and  catchword  of  the  music  of 
halls.  The  colonial  is  behind  the  times  ?  What 
does  it  matter!  Are  we  not  all  behind  the  times  of 
tomorrow  ?  So  long  as  we  cannot  travel  faster  than  the  news,  it 
makes  little  difference ;  and  it  is  wise,  when  we  are  in  San  Francisco, 
to  do  as  the  Franciscans  do.  It  is  as  bad  to  be  ahead  of  the  times 
as  to  be  behind,  and  it  is  best  to  follow  the  style  of  one's  own 
locality,  with  a  shrewd  eye  to  one's  purchases  for  the  future,  buying 
what  we  can  see  must  come  into  popular  favour. 

But  does  your  metropolitan  enjoy  this  complexity,  this  living 
in  the  future  ?  Not  he !  He  cares  nothing  for  the  vieux  jeu. 
For  him,  ping-pong  is  dead  or  dying — he  neither  knows  nor  cares 
that  it  still  lives  in  the  Occident,  marching  in  glory  ever  towards 
the  West,  along  the  old  trail  to  fame.  Of  the  last  six  successful 
books  discussed  over  his  muffins,  does  he  know  which  have  been 
virile  enough  to  survive  transplanting  to  other  shores — which  have 
emigrated  and  become  naturalized  in  the  colonies?  No!  He  is 
for  the  next  little  victory  at  the  tea  tables  of  the  elect ! 

And  yet,  this  afterglow,  this  subsequent  invasion  of  new  terri- 
tory is  what  brings  enduring  fame.  Before  the  city  election  is 
substantiated,  the  country  must  be  heard  from.  The  urban  hears 
the  solo  voices  of  adulation,  the  worship  of  those  near  and  dear  to 
celebrity,  but  the  great  chorus  that  sweeps  the  hero  up  to  Parnassus 
comes  from  a  wider  stage.  The  army  of  invasion  never  comes  home 
again  to  be  hailed  as  victor  until  it  has  encircled  the  globe.  But 
it  is  the  greater  conquest  that  the  dweller  at  the  outpost  sees,  at  first 
like  a  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  and  it  is  his  game  to  watch 

I05 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


CEtJff£ 
Ot  t$t 


and  await  it.  It  is  better  so.  Waste  no  pity  upon  him 
at  tne  ec%e  of  the  world.  For  the  big  game  needs  big 
men,  and  it  is  the  boldest  and  most  strenuous  spirits  who 
push  to  Ultima  Thule.  The  ansemic  and  neurotic  do 
not  emigrate  ;  the  reddest  blood  has  flowed  in  the  veins 
of  the  pioneer  ever  since  the  first  migration.  He  does  things,  rather 
than  talks  of  things  others  have  done  —  he  knows  life,  even  if  he  knows 
not  Ibsen.  Meet  him  in  his  far-away  home,  and  he  holds  your 
interest  with  an  unlooked-for  charm  ;  take  him  to  the  Elgin  marbles 
and  he  will  have  and  hold  his  own  idea  of  art  unborrowed  from 
text-books.  He  knows  more  of  your  city's  history  than  you  do 
yourself;  panic  or  the  furor  of  a  fashion  cannot  hypnotize  him. 
The  importance  of  a  celebrated  name  cannot  embarrass  him,  for  he 
has  met  men  unknown  to  fame  who  have  lived  as  uncrowned  kings. 
He  has  seen  cities  rise  from  the  plain.  He  has  made  the  wilderness 
to  blossom  like  the  rose  ;  he  has  lived,  not  written  epics. 

And  in  addition  to  gaining  all  this  experience  that  trained  the 

pioneers  of  old,  he  has,  while  living  at  the  confines  of  civilization, 

kept  in  touch  with  the  world,  and  has  tasted  the  exhilarating  flavour 

of  the  old  and  new  in  one  mouthful.     For,  in  this  century, 

distance  is  swept  away  and  no  land  is  really  isolate. 

The  pioneer  lives  like  a  god  above  distinc- 

tions of  time,  at  once  in  the  past, 

the  present  and  the  future. 


106 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


Cijc  Jitarp  f^afrit 


FOR  seven  years  I  have  kept  my  diary  scrupulously, 
without  missing  a  day,  and  now,  at  the  beginning  of  a 
new  twelvemonth,  I  am  wondering  whether  I  should 
maintain  or  renounce  it.  There  are  certain  good  habits, 
it  would  seem,  as  hard  to  break  as  bad  ones,  and  if  the  practice  of 
keeping  a  daily  journal  is  a  praiseworthy  one,  it  derives  no  little  of  its 
virtue  from  sheer  inertia.  The  half-filled  book  tempts  one  on; 
there  is  a  pleasure  in  seeing  the  progress  of  the  volume,  leaf  by  leaf; 
like  sentimental  misers,  we  hoard  our  store  of  memories.  We  end 
each  day  with  a  definite  statement  of  fact  or  fancy,  and  it  grows 
harder  and  harder  to  abstain  from  the  self-enforced  duty.  Yet  it  is 
seldom  a  pleasure,  when  one  is  fatigued  with  excitement  or  work,  to 
transmit  our  affairs  to  writing.  Some,  it  is  true,  love  it  for  its  own 
sake,  or  as  a  relief  for  pent-up  emotions,  but,  in  one  way  or  another, 
most  autobiographical  journalists  consider  the  occupation  as  a  pru- 
dent depositor  regards  his  frugal  savings  in  the  bank.  Some  time, 
somehow,  they  think,  these  coined  memories  will  prove  useful. 

Does  this  time  ever  come,  I  wonder  ?  For  me  it  has  not  come 
yet,  though  I  still  picture  a  late  reflective  age  when  I  shall  enjoy  re- 
calling the  past,  and  live  again  my  old  sensations.  But  life  is  more 
strenuous  than  of  yore,  and  even  at  seventy  or  eighty,  nowadays,  no 
one  need  consider  himself  too  old  for  a  fresh,  active  interest  in  the 
world  about  him.  Your  old  gentleman  of  today  does  not  sit  in  his 
own  corner  of  the  fireplace  and  dote  over  the  lost  years ;  he  reads 

107 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


the  morning  papers,  and  insists  upon  going  to  the 
theatre  with   his   nieces  on  wet  evenings.     Have    I, 
Wl  tp    tnerij  been  laying  up  honey  for  a  winter  of  discontent 
that  shall  never  come  ? 

Besides  this  distrust  of  my  diaries,  I  am  awaken- 
ing after  seven  years  to  the  fact  that,  as  autobiography,  the  books  are 
strangely  lacking  in  interest.  They  are  not  convincing.  I  thought, 
as  I  did  my  clerkly  task,  that  I  should  always  be  I,  but  a  cursory 
glance  at  these  naive  pages  shows  that  they  were  written  by  a  thou- 
sand different  persons,  no  one  of  whom  speaks  the  language  of  the 
emotions  as  I  know  it  today.  It  is  true,  then,  my  diary  has  con- 
vinced me,  that  we  do  become  different  persons  every  seven  years. 
Here  is  written  down  rage,  hate,  delight,  affection  and  yearning,  no 
word  of  which  is  comprehensible  to  me  now;  they  leave  me  quite 
cold.  I  am  reading  the  adventures  of  some  one  else,  not  my  own. 
Who  was  it  ?  I  have  forgotten  the  dialect  of  my  youth.  Ah,  in- 
deed, the  boy  is  father  of  the  man  !  I  will  be  indulgent,  as  a  son 
should,  to  paternal  indiscretions ! 

And  yet,  for  the  bare  skeleton  of  my  history,  these  volumes  are 
useful  enough.  The  pages  which,  while  still  wet  with  ink  and  tears 
I  considered  lyric  essays,  have  fallen  to  a  merely  utilitarian  value. 
I  am  thankful,  on  that  account,  for  them,  and  for  the  fact  that  my 
bookkeeping  was  well  systematized  and  indexed.  As  outward  form 
goes,  my  diaries  are  models  of  manner.  So  for  those  still  under 
the  old-fashioned  spell,  who  would  adopt  a  plan  of  entry,  let  me 
describe  them. 

The  especial  event  of  each  day,  if  the  day  held  anything  worthy 
of  remark  or  remembrance,  was  boldly  noted  at  the  top  of  the  page 
over  the  date.  Whirring  the  leaves  I  catch  many  suggestive  phrases  : 

108 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


"Dinner  at  Mme.  £>ui   Five's"   (it  was   there   I  first 

tasted  champagne),  "  Henry  Irving  in  '  Macbeth  '  "  (but 

it  was  not  the  actor  that  made  that  night  famous — I 

took  Kitty  Carmine  home  in  a  hansom !),  "Broke  my 

arm "  (or  else  I  would  never  have  read  Marlowe,  I 

fear),  and  "  Met  Sally  Reynard  "  (this  was  an   event,  it  seemed  at 

that  time,  worthy  of  being  chronicled  in  red  ink).      So   they  go. 

They  are  the  chapter  headings  in  the  book  of  my  life. 

In  the  lower  left-hand  corner  of  each  page  I  noted  the  receipt 
of  letters,  the  initials  of  the  writers  inscribed  in  little  squares,  and  in 
the  opposite  right-hand  corner  a  complementary  hieroglyph  kept 
account  of  every  reply  sent.  So,  by  running  over  the  pages  I  can 
note  the  fury  of  my  correspondence.  (What  an  industrious  scribbler 
"  S.  R."  was  to  be  sure !  I  had  not  thought  we  went  it  quite  so 
hard — and  "  K.  C." — how  often  she  appears  in  the  lower  left,  and 
how  seldom  in  the  lower  right !  I  was  a  brute,  no  doubt,  and  small 
wonder  she  married  Flemingway  !) 

Perpendicularly,  along  the  inner  margin,  I  wrote  the  names  of 
those  to  whom  I  had  been  introduced  that  day,  and  on  a  back  page 
I  kept  a  chronological  list  of  the  same.  (I  met  Kitty,  it  seems,  on 
a  Friday — perhaps  that  accounts  for  our  not  hitting  it  off!)  Most  of 
these  are  names,  and  nothing  more,  now,  and  it  gives  my  heart  a  leap 
to  come  across  Sally  in  that  list  of  nonentities.  (To  think  that  there 
was  ever  a  time  when  I  did  not  know  her  !) 

Besides  all  this,  the  books  are  extra-illustrated  in  the  most  sig- 
nificant manner.  There  is  hardly  a  page  that  does  not  contain  some 
trifling  memento ;  here,  a  theatre  coupon  pasted  in,  or  a  clipping 
from  the  programme,  an  engraved  card  or  a  pencilled  note  ;  there  a 
scrap  of  a  photograph  worn  out  in  my  pocket-book,  somebody's 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


sketched  profile,  or,  at  rare  intervals,  a  wisp  of  some 
one's   hair!     (This  reddish  curl — was  it  Kitty's   or 
from  Dora's  brow?     Oh,  I  remember,  it  was  Myrtle 
gave   it   me !     No,    I    am    wrong ;    I    stole   it  from 
Nettie !)     I    pasted    them    in   with    eager   trembling 
fingers,  but  I  regard  them  now  without  a  tremour.     There  are  other 
pages  being  filled  which  interest  me  more. 

Occasionally  I  open  a  book,  1895  perhaps,  and  consult  a  date 
to  be  sure  that  Millicent's  birthday  is  on  November  I2th,  or  to  de- 
termine just  who  was  at  Kitty's  coming-out  dinner.  Here  is  a  dia- 
gram of  the  table  with  the  places  of  all  the  guests  named.  (So  I 
sat  beside  Nora,  did  I  ?  And  who  was  Nora  ?  I  have  forgotten  her 
name  !  Now  she  is  Mrs.  Alfred  Fortunatus  !) 

Sometimes  I  think  it  would  be  better  to  write  up  my  diary  in 

advance,  to  fill  in  the  year's  pages  with  what  I  would  like  to  do,  and 

attempt  to  live  up  to  the  prophecy.     And  yet  I  have  had  too  many 

unforeseen  pleasures  in  my  life  for  that.     I  would  rather  trust  fate 

than  imagination.     So,  chiefly  because    I    have    kept  the  book  for 

seven  years,  I  shall  probably  keep  it  seven  years  more.     It  gratifies 

my  conceit  to  chronicle  my  small  happenings,  and  somehow,  written 

down  in  fair  script,  they  seem  important.     And  besides  I  am  a  bit 

anxious  to  see  just  how  many  times  a  certain  name,  which 

has  lately  begun   to  make  itself  prominent,  will 

appear  at  the  top  of  the  pages.  I  promise 

to    tell    you    some    time,   if 

Celestine  is  willing ! 


I  10 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


Cfje  perfect 


SURELY  the  modern  invention  that  has  done  most  to  per- 
petuate Romance  is  the  telephone.     The  man  that,  however 
used  to  this  machine,  can  take  up  its  ear-piece  without   a 
thrill  of  wonder  has  no  soul.     The  locomotive,  the  steam- 
ship, the  automobile  have  but  made  travel  a  bit  more  rapid,  they  have 
added  no  new  element  of  mystery.     Even  the  telegraph  fails  to  give 
any  true  feeling  of  surprise.     It  is  no  whit  more  wonderful  than  that 
one,  after  writing  a  letter  and  slipping  it  into  a  red  mail-box,  should 
be  handed  a  reply  by  a  strange,  blue-clad  gentleman,  after  many 
days.    A  telegraphic  despatch  does  not  even  hold  the  handwriting  of 
the  sender;  it  is  cold,  colourless,  metallic. 

But  a  machine  that  can  bring  your  friend  into  the  same  room 
with  you,  at  a  moment's  notice,  who  can  deny  the  poetry  of  such  a 
victory  over  space  and  time !  Not  until  some  genius  invents  a 
thought-transmitter  shall  a  more  stupendous  aid  to  Romance  be  dis- 
covered. For  see !  It  is  not  only  one's  friends  that  are  caught  in 
the  net  of  telephone  wires,  one  can  drag  up  a  whole  city  full !  I  have 
but  to  sit  down  at  my  desk  and  call  up  a  number,  and  he  or  she  must 
reply.  True,  I  cannot  force  any  one  to  answer,  but  if  I  have  the 
audacity  and  persistency,  it  will  go  hard  if  I  do  not  find  some  one  who 
is  willing  to  while  away  a  leisure,  inquisitive  moment  in  inconsequent 
conversation. 

It  is  my  privilege  to  live  in  a  telephone  city  where  the  habit  is 
extrordinarily  developed.  One  out  of  every  sixteen  of  the  popula- 

III 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


tion  is  connected  to  that  most  amiable  of  go-betweens, 
the  Central  Office.     I  have  the  opportunity  of  inves- 
tigating  some  thirty  thousand  souls  at  the  ridiculously 
cheap  price  of  five  cents  per  soul !     Not  only  every 
counting-house  and  shop,  doctor's  office  and  corner 
grocery  has  its  wire,  but  every  residence  with  any  claims  to  acquaint- 
ance.    What  Romance  gone   to  waste!     For  few,   it  seems,  have 
imagination  enough  to  embrace  such  unlimited  opportunities ! 

This  morning  Sonia  called  me  at  8:25,  apologizing  for  her 
kind-heartedness  in  letting  me  sleep  when  she  knew  I  wished  to 
work.  Think  of  that  for  an  alarm  clock  —  Sonia's  voice,  ten  miles 
away !  So  I  am  awakened  by  the  telephone,  I  call  by  telephone, 
flirt  by  telephone,  shop,  market  and  speculate  over  the  same  wire. 
We  do  not  take  long  in  utilizing  the  latest  invention  here  in  this 
hurried  land  —  the  city  is  ravaged  by  Telephonitis.  One  invites 
friends  to  dinner,  one  makes  appointments,  one  breaks  the  news  of 
the  death  of  a  friend,  one  proposes  marriage  —  all  by  means  of  this 
little  instrument.  I  know  one  lady  who  has  her  machine  connected 
by  flexible  wires  so  that  she  may  talk  in  bed.  She  need  not  be  too 
strict  in  regard  to  dress  for  her  interviews  —  no  one  ever  knows  !  I 
know  two  old  men  who  while  away  long  evenings  together  playing 
chess,  when  the  weather  is  too  harsh  to  leave  home.  Beside  each 
board  stands  the  faithful  receiver;  one  has  but  to  whisper  "K.B.  to 
Q.j"  or  some  such  rigamarole  into  the  nickel-plated  "extension"  and 
he  has  checkmated  his  opponent  across  the  Bay  ! 

With  such  common  intercourse  as  this,  many  are  the  comedies 
of  the  telephone.  I  have  myself  entertained  a  visitor  with  a  diver- 
sion he  will  not  soon  forget.  The  day  he  came  I  took  him  to  my 
telephone  and  introduced  him  in  turn  to  a  half-dozen  ladies  of  my 

112 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


acquaintance,  who  plied  him  with  badinage.     We  set 
forth  then  on  a  tour  of  calls,  and  I  enjoyed  his  several 
attempts  at  identifying  the  voices  he  had  heard  over  the 
wire.     It  is  not  always  easy  to  recognize  a  voice  and  re-    <B0sftfttofttt 
member  it.    I  remember  an  unfortunate  experience  of 
my  own  with  two  sisters  which  brought  a  week's  embarrassment,  for  the 
voices  of  members  of  one  family  do  have  a  marvellous  similarity  in 
the  telephone,  and  if  one  is  anxious  to  call  upon  Fanny  when  Eliza- 
beth is  out,  one  must  be  very  sure  just  which  sister  one  is  speaking 
to  when  making  an  appointment. 

The  necessity  for  such  precaution  has  led  some  of  my  friends  to 
adopt  telephone  methods  which  must  be  extremely  amusing  to  one 
who  could  hear  both  sides  of  the  conversation.  In  many  houses  the 
telephone  is  situated  in  the  hall,  altogether  too  near  the  dining-room 
for  any  confidential  communication.  If  the  questioner  is  careful  he 
may  so  word  his  inquiries  that  they  may  be  answered  by  a  mere 
"yes"  or  "no";  and  papa,  smoking  after  dinner,  is  none  the  wiser. 
If  the  girl  finds  it  impossible  to  reply  in  unguarded  terms,  she  has 
been  known  to  say,  somewhat  vaguely,  "Of  course"  which  conveys 
to  the  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire  the  fact  that  she  is  not  alone. 
Some,  too,  have  more  definite  codes.  Celestine  has  arranged  with 
me  that  when  she  mentions  the  "  Call"  it  means  the  forenoon;  the 
"Chronicle"  stands  for  afternoon,  while  by  the  "Examiner"  I 
understand  that  she  refers  to  the  evening.  If,  then,  I  ring  her  up 
and  say,  "  When  can  you  go  walking  today  ?  1  want  to  be  sure  not 
to  meet  that  fool  Clubberly."  Clubberly,  who  is  at  her  elbow, 
hears  her  reply  sweetly,  "  Really  !  Yes,  I  saw  it  in  the  "  Chronicle  "  ; 
and  how  is  he  to  know  what  it  is  all  about?  Oh,  he  could  have  his 
revenge  easily  enough,  were  he  not  an  ass,  for  he  might  be  kissing 

"3 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


l&ttlttt 

C30=i)fttoffn 


Celestine  (horrid   thought)  even  as  she  is  speaking, 
for  all  I  could  know. 

With  this  romantic  battery  opposed  to  her,  what 
chance  has  poor  Mrs.  Grundy?  What  hard-hearted 
parent  can  successfully  immure  his  daughter  while  the 
copper  wire  strings  out  toward  her  proscribed  lover  ?  Here  is  where 
love  laughs  at  locksmiths.  Were  a  dozen  ineligibles  forbidden  the 
house,  the  moment  mamma's  back  is  turned  and  she  has  gone  out 
for  her  round  of  calls,  little  daughter  takes  the  telephone  off  the 
hook  and,  presto  !  she  has  her  room  full  of  clandestine  company  ! 
Does  any  rash  young  man  dare  ring  her  up  while  her  parents  are 
near,  she  has  but  to  say,  sweetly,  "  Oh,  you  have  the  wrong  number  !  " 
and  hang  up.  It  is  too  wonderful.  You  may  lie  by  telephone,  with 
a  straight  face,  or  you  may  call  a  man  a  liar  with  impunity.  If  you 
have  no  answer  ready  to  an  ardent  impertinence,  you  need  only  say 
nothing  and  listen  —  he  is  helpless;  you  need  not  speak  unless  you 
want  to.  Who  made  the  first  telephone  made  mischief  for  a  thou- 
sand years  to  come  ! 

Rrrrrrrrrrng  I  !  !  !     There  is   Celestine  ringing  me  up    now! 
Pardon    me   if    I    leave    you    for   a    moment,    for    I     think    she 
going    to   give    me    her    answer   to    a  very   impor- 
tant question.     Tremendously  important  for 
me!     Wish    me    good    luck!     I 
hope      no      one     will 
be  listening  ! 


s 


114 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


WHEN  I  asked  Perilla  how  she  first  came  to  realize  that 
she  was  growing  up,  she  said,  "  When  I  began  of  my 
own  accord  to  wash  my  sticky  fingers,  without  waiting  to 
be  told."    I  believe  she  meant  it  literally,  with  no  moral 
significance  that  should  make  a  parable  of  the  statement.     I  hope  so, 
at  least,  for  then  by  that  test  I  cannot  hope  to  have  yet  attained  the 
years  of  discretion.     Little  Sister  says  that  she  felt  "  growing  pains," 
but  here  is  a  figure  of  speech,  surely.     I  suppose  she  means  the 
wonder  of  the  passage  from  a  great,  wistful  ignorance  to  a  limited 
knowledge ;  for  the  first  part  of  the  path  of  life  is  a  very  steep 
up-grade. 

I  myself  can  point  to  no  one  circumstance  that  revealed  to  me 
the  vision  of  the  great  march  of  time  that  is  sweeping  us  on  towards 
the  goal.  I  was  for  long  like  one  who  looks  from  the  window  of  a 
railway  carriage,  too  busily  engaged  in  watching  the  world  fly  past 
him  to  realize  his  own  motion.  Neither  long  trousers  nor  razors 
awoke  me  from  the  child-trance;  I  saw  scorned  infants  master  me  by 
their  inches ;  I  heard  rumours  of  love  and  death  and  duty,  but  I  was 
unmoved.  It  was  a  part  of  the  game  of  existence,  and  it  seemed 
natural  that  persons  should  be  classified  and  remain  in  categories  of 
old  and  young.  I  was  a  spectator  outside  the  merry-go-round.  I 
was  to  be  rich,  of  course;  I  had  the  mind  to  dare  and  the  will  to  do. 
I  should  be  wise,  too  —  why  not?  Sometimes  I  should  have  memo- 
ries, I  thought,  not  knowing  that  I  was  even  then  living  away  my 

"5 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


life,  and  that  this  was  an  era  to  which  I  should  look 

back  and  deem  important. 

^yj  mv  reading^  to0j  Went  to  show  that  I  was  an 
*^P  amateur  at  living.    Things  seemed  really  to  happen  in 

books,  but  not  to  me;  there  men  were  swung  in 
unknown  furies,  sensations  were  keen  and  impelling,  and  life  had  the 
sharp  sting  of  reality.  My  own  emotions  seemed  insipid  and  inade- 
quate for  a  citizen  of  the  world.  Surely  such  minor  escapades  and 
trivialities  as  mine  were  not  worth  considering.  And  so,  when  the 
storm  and  stress  came,  I  was  ill-prepared,  and  at  the  first  blow  my 
pride  went  down.  Some  devil,  as  in  a  dream,  whispered  in  my  ear 
that  perhaps  I  might  not  succeed  after  all,  and  it  came  to  me  as 
a  summons  that  the  time  had  come  to  be  out  and  doing.  And  I 
saw  that  the  conquest  of  my  ambition  would  be  achieved,  not  by 
the  impetuous  onslaught  that  should  carry  all  before  it,  but  by  the 
slow  and  tedious  siege,  laid  with  years  of  waiting  and  working  and 
watching.  It  was  then,  perhaps,  though  I  did  not  know  it,  that  I 
began  to  grow  up,  and  became  a  man.  I  opened  my  eyes  and  looked 
about  me ;  it  was  as  if  I  had  been  landed  fresh  from  the  country  in 
the  busy  town,  like  the  Sleeper  Awakened.  No  more  field-faring 
and  trapesing  holidays  under  the  blue  sky ;  I  must  choose  my  street 
and  fight  my  way  for  it  against  the  throng. 

It  struck  me  with  a  sense  of  my  inferiority  that  there  was  an 
absolute  quality  of  knowledge  I  had  not  mastered.  Some  of  my 
classmates  seemed  to  know  things,  while  I  had  but  acquired  informa- 
tion. They  could  swim ;  I  dared  not  go  in  over  my  head.  They 
had  convictions,  I  had  only  opinions ;  it  was  the  difference  between 
the  language  of  Frenchmen  and  they  who  learn  French.  Here,  I 
thought,  was  the  final  classification,  and  I  wrote  myself  down  a  witless 

116 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


neophyte  in  the  world's  mysteries.  For  my  whole 
education  had  been  founded  upon  the  value  of  the 
verity  of  the  straight  line,  and  wisdom  was  my  high- 
est  ideal.  By  this  standard  I  measured  myself  and  P 

my  experience.  I  delighted  in  the  beauty  of  science, 
but  of  that  other  beauty  which  is  its  own  excuse  for  being,  I  did 
not  know.  I  was  as  one  who  saw  form  without  colour,  or  the  outline 
without  the  mass.  I  had  not  yet  come  to  myself;  I  was  a  child 
yet,  and  the  result  of  my  immediate  environment — a  mental  cham- 
eleon. A  few  generations  of  my  austere  ancestors  impregnated  my 
blood  with  their  stern  virtues,  and  it  still  ran  cold  and  tranquil  in 
my  veins.  But  there  were  more  remote  and  subtle  influences  behind 
me  that  must  work  themselves  out,  and  in  some  sub-stratum  of  con- 
sciousness the  pure  Greek  in  me  survived. 

And  so  it  was  Dianeme  who  brought  me  at  last  to  the  door  of 
the  temple,  and  I  saw  with  her  eyes  and  heard  with  her  ears,  and  the 
world  grew  beautiful,  an  altogether  fitting  setting  for  her  charms. 
And  then  I  knew  in  very  truth  that  I  had  grown  up;  but  yet,  by  a 
sublime  miracle  I  had  in  the  same  revelation  recovered  my  youth  — 
if,  indeed,  I  had  ever  really  been  young  before !  Now,  succeed  or 
fail  as  I  might,  life  would  always  be  fair  and  interesting,  for  Dianeme 
was  but  one  of  a  divine  sisterhood,  and  there  were  many  degrees  to  be 
taken.  So  a  kind  of  passion  seized  me  to  know  Life's  different 
phases  and  find  the  secret  of  the  whole  ;  and  that  mood,  God  willing, 
shall  preserve  my  virginity  to  the  end. 

So  here  I  am,  by  the  grace  of  Dianeme,  on  the  true  road  to 
youth  again,  not  to  that  absolute  unconcern  of  all  but  the  present, 
that  I  once  felt,  nor  to  the  fool's  paradise,  where,  Maida  would  have 
it,  is  the  true  happiness — "the  ability  to  fool  one's  self"  —  but  to  a 

117 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


(3rotoing 
Up 


kind  of  childlike  wonder  at  things  (ah,  Little  Sister, 
may  you  never  wander  from  it  as  I  did!)  and    the 
knowledge   of  what  is  really  the   most  worth  while. 
(And   you,  Perilla,  you  need    not  pretend  that  you 
don't  know,  for  the  truth  flashes  from  your  jest!) 
For  this  is  the  very  blossom  of  my  youth,  the  era  of  knowing, 
as  that  was  the  era  of  being,  and  though  there  may  come  other  dark 
days,  as  there  were  before  the  bud  burst  into  bloom,  I  have  seen  the 
beginning  and  I  know  the  law  now,  and  I  trust  that  the  fruit  of  my 
life,  the  doing,  may  be  even  more  worth  the  while.     And  I  shall 
perhaps  find  that  wisdom  and    beauty  and  goodness  are 
but  one  thing,  as  the  poets  say  —  that  living  is 
a  continual  growing  up,  and  that  age 
is  only  a  youth  that   knows 
why   it    is    happy! 


118 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


pauper's  Monologue 


UNDERSTAND,  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  are  always 
longing  to  be  rich.      I  do  very  well,  ordinarily,  in  the 
shadow  of  prosperity,  though  there  comes  upon  me  peri- 
odically the  lust  for  gold,  at  which  times  the  desire  to 
rush  down-town  and  spend  money  indiscreetly  must  be  obeyed.     It 
is  a  common  symptom,  paupers  tell  me,  and  carries  with  it  its  own 
remedy,  giving  much  the  same  relief  that  blood-letting  did  of  old,  if 
so  be  the  practice  does  not  lead  to  a  dangerous  hemorrhage.     I  have 
my  ups  and  downs,  like  most  unsalaried  Bohemians,  thin  purse,  thick 
purse,  at  erratic  intervals,  but  my  spendthrift  appetite  is  curiously 
independent  of  these  financial  fluctuations.    In  fact,  a  miserly  restraint 
is  most  likely  to  seize  me  when  my  pocket  is  full,  and  I  usually  grow 
reckless  when  it  has  no  silver  lining. 

There  are  few  paupers  among  us  who  do  not  conceit  themselves 
to  be  artists  at  spending  money,  and  believe  the  fit  intelligence  is 
most  wanting  in  those  who  have  the  means.  I  confess  that  I  share 
their  convictions,  having  wasted  much  time  in  a  study  of  the  situa- 
tion. Like  those  planning  a  foreign  tour,  I  have  mapped  out  the 
golden  road  of  Opportunity,  and  know  the  itinerary  by  heart.  And, 
without  trespassing  the  science  of  Economy,  of  which  I  am  criminally 
ignorant  (having  been  somewhat  prepossessed  during  my  Sophomore 
courses),  I  submit  there  are  active  and  passive  categories  into  which 
coupon-cutters  may  be  relegated.  The  symbol  of  your  monied  man 
is  the  cigar,  involving  a  destructive  process,  whether  applied  to  food, 

119 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


raiment  or  ministry  to  the  senses.     The  greed  of  the 

collector  is  of  the  same  flavour.     It  is  the  difference 

&  pattpft  v  between  spending  the  money  to  see  and  to  stage  the 

Monologue  play  that  i  mean> 

For  why  should  an  access  of  wealth  so  dull  the 
brain  that  the  battle  between  the  kings  of  hearts  and  spades  seems  more 
interesting  than  the  game  with  human  knights  and  pawns  ?  I  have 
often  been  minded  to  write  an  "  Open  Letter  to  Millionaires,"  and  offer 
myself  as  a  Master  of  their  Sports,  to  guide  them  through  fields  of 
untried  sensation  and  novel  enterprises.  I  have  my  offers  tabulated 
from  an  hundred  dollars  upward,  each  involving  the  inception  of 
activities  whose  ramifications  would  provide  diversion  for  years. 
There  are  twenty  young  men  I  know  of  in  this  town  who  are  waiting 
for  such  a  chance.  Why  should  I  not  be  elected  to  captain  them  ? 
I  promise  you  the  rise  and  fall  of  stocks  shall  not  be  more  exciting 
than  our  rivalries.  Indeed,  brains  are  for  sale  at  absurd  bargains 
today.  Why  not  play  them  off  against  each  other  in  a  game  of  Life  ? 

But  these  are  dreams  never  to  be  realized.  I  am  no  promoter, 
and  must  play  the  beggar's  part.  Yet  I  have  often  wondered  how  I 
would  be  affected  if  these  hopes  came  true,  and  if  some  capitalist, 
touched  by  my  appeal,  seeing  this  good  seed  cast  upon  barren 
ground,  opening  his  heart  and  purse-strings,  should  present  me  with 
a  modest  fortune  without  conditions.  Could  I  assume  the  responsi- 
bility of  gratitude  and  fly  with  the  load  of  obligation  that  I  myself 
would  assume?  By  all  rules  of  fiction,  no!  Yet  if  my  conscience 
were  seduced  I  might  frame  my  mind  to  accept  debonairly  and  do 
my  best.  Tempt  me  not,  millionaires,  for  this  is  my  week  of  long- 
ing, and  my  brain  boils  with  adventurous  desires. 

Yet,  had  I  the  ear  of  the  benefactor,  another  mood  would  impel 

120 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


my  renunciation ;  for,  against  my  will  and  interest,  I  am 
forced  to  acknowledge  that  others  are  better  fitted  to  be 
rich  than  I,  who  have  been  a  pauper  all  my  life,  and  am 
not  so  unhappy  in  my  misery.  I  know  some  to  whom 
wealth  should  come  as  a  right,  as  has  their  beauty, 
and  who  play  an  inconsistent  part  upon  the  stage  of  poverty.  There 
is  Dianeme,  who  knows  the  names  of  all  the  roses,  and  can  tell  one 
etching  from  another.  She  is  so  instinct  with  tact  and  taste  that  I 
feel  quite  unworthy  of  affluence  until  she  has  been  served.  And 
there,  too,  is  Little  Sister,  who  is  in  worse  case,  having  once  ridden 
on  high  wheels  and  nestled  against  the  padded  comforts  of  life,  now 
charioted  by  street  cars,  with  a  motorman  for  a  driver  and  a  con- 
ductor for  a  footman.  And  though  it  was  her  reverses  that  gave  me 
chance  to  be  her  friend  and  discover  her  worth,  yet  I  fear  I  would 
put  back  my  opportunity  ten  years  to  give  her  the  little  luxuries  she 
craves.  She  has  acquired  a  relish  for  the  flesh-pots,  poor  Little  Sis- 
ter, and  somehow  the  weakness  becomes  her,  as  the  habit  of  weeping 
fitted  the  eighteenth  century  ideals  of  women.  Two  more  pairs  of 
silk  stockings  would  reinstate  her  as  a  lady  complete.  Not  that 
anybody  but  Little  Sister  and  her  laundress  would  ever  see  them,  but 
they  would  give  her  a  nourishing  satisfaction  that  is  of  itself  worth 
while. 

Yet,  again  I  wonder — if  Little  Sister  grew  rich,  what  would 
become  of  me?  I  am  told  that  the  first  pangs  of  the  birth  of  For- 
tune are  felt  in  the  unpleasant  acquisition  of  new  claimants  to  friend- 
ship, but  I  do  not  believe  this  is  so.  I  should  myself  fear  to  intrude, 
I  am  sure.  There  would  be  so  many  new  relations  and  obligations 
that  I  could  not  take  the  friendship  simply  and  naturally.  I  could 
make  love  to  her  by  letter,  perhaps,  but  not  in  her  carriage.  I  would 

121 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


miss  the   ungloved  hand   of  familiarity  and  enclose 

myself  in  starched  formality,  though  I  know  the  pain 

in  so  doing  would  be  mutual.     For  the  pride  of  riches 

JponoiorrtlC    js  as  notnjng  to  tne  pride  of  poverty,  and  I  am  very, 

very  poor!     But  surely  Little    Sister   must   be  rich 

again,  even  if  I  have  to  wait  for  the  second  table. 

And  so  I  gracefully  resign  my  claims  to  fortune,  where  I  am  so 

outclassed,  and  make  off  into  the  open  fields  towards  the  Hills  of 

Fame,  where  the  brougham  of  Opulence  may  not  follow  me,  though 

I  fare  afoot.    For  we  do  not  get  rich  in  my  family ;   there  is  no  uncle 

in  Patagonia  whose  death  could  benefit  us,  and  the  bag  of  diamonds, 

the  hope  of  whose  discovery  sustained  my  immature  youth,  no  longer 

haunts  my  dreams.     For  a  long  time  yet  I   must  deny  myself  the 

title  of  gentleman,  forced  as  I  am  to  carry  parcels  "  over  three  inches 

square,"  which  I  hear  is  the  test  of  fashionable  caste.    This  is  my  last 

gasp.     I  shall  be  a  man  again  tomorrow,  and  if  any  millionaire  is 

tempted  by  this  appeal,  he  must  make  haste.     But  I  shall 

not  be  rung  up  from  sleep   tonight.     It  is  the 

law  of  society  that  Spend  helps  Save, 

and  Save   helps  Scrimp,  and 

Scrimp  helps  Starve. 


122 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


Doting  ;Jttan's  jfancp 


UNDOUBTEDLY  the  most  logical,  though  perhaps  the 
least  interesting,  method  of  opening  the  discussion  of  a 
thesis,  is  that  employed  by  the  skillful  carver  who  dis- 
sects his  duck  according  to  the  natural  divisions  of  the 
subject  and  proceeds  therewith  analytically.     This  is  the  system  en- 
couraged in  academic  courses  and  is  said  to  enable  any  one  to  write 
upon  any  subject.     But  such  an  essay  is  mighty  hard  reading;  unless 
a  writer  is  so  hungry  for  his  theme  that  he  forgets  his  manners  and 
falls  to  without  ceremony  the  chances  are  that  his  efforts  will  receive 
scant  attention.     And  so  I  shyly  speak  of  love. 

So  few  essayists  write  with  a  good  appetite  !  And  yet,  see  how 
I  restrain  myself,  and  perforce  adopt  the  conventional  procedure,  as 
one  too  proud  to  betray  his  ravening  hunger !  I  must  be  calm,  I 
must  be  polite — and  you  shall  know  only  by  my  forgetfulness  of  the 
salt  and  my  attention  to  the  bones  of  thought,  how  the  game  interests 
me.  In  speaking  of  love,  I  must  let  my  head  guard  my  heart,  too, 
for  it  is  in  the  endeavour  to  misunderstand  women  that  we  pass  our 
most  delightful  moments.  They  will  not  permit  men  to  be  too  sure 
of  them,  and  what  you  learn  from  one,  you  must  hide  carefully  from 
the  next.  So  I  begin  my  fencing  with  a  great  feint  of  awkwardness, 
like  a  master  with  a  beginner,  knowing  well  enough  how  likely  to  get 
into  trouble  is  any  one  who  pretends  innocence. 

For  a  long  time  I  believed  it  all  a  conspiracy  of  the  novelists, 
and  that  love,  so  ideally  depicted,  was  but  a  myth,  kept  alive  by  the 

123 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


craft,  to  furnish  a  backbone  for  literary  sensation.  But 
Si  ffounfl;  there  are  undoubtedly  many  bigoted  believers  in  the 
theory  of  love.  The  women,  however,  who  admit  that 
it  is  a  l°st  art>  complain  piteously  of  the  ineptitude  of 
the  other  sex.  I  confess  that  few  men  can  satisfactorily 
acquit  themselves  of  the  ordeal  of  courtship  without  some  tuition,  but, 
once  having  acquired  the  rudiments  of  the  profession,  it  seems  incon- 
sistent to  taunt  them  with  the  experiments  of  their  apprenticeship. 
It  is  too  much  to  require  a  man  to  make  a  gallant  wooing  and  then 
twit  him  with  the  "  promiscuousness  "  by  which  he  won  his  facility. 
Yet,  some,  doubtless,  have  learned  also  to  defend  themselves  against 
this  last  accusation;  it  is  the  test  of  the  Passed  Master.  For  the 
other,  poor  dolts,  who  never  see  the  opportunity  for  action,  however 
adroitly  presented,  who  speak  when  they  should  hold  tongue  and 
leave  undone  all  those  things  that  they  ought  to  have  done — the 
girls  marry  them,  to  be  sure,  but  most  of  the  love-making  is  on  the 
wrong  side.  There  are  more  yawns  than  kisses ;  the  brutal  question 
satisfies  the  yop,  and  he  bungles  through  the  engagement,  breaking 
doggedly  through  the  crust  of  the  acquaintance,  witless  of  the  delight- 
ful perils  of  thin  ice. 

And  yet  I  think  the  subject  might  be  mastered  in  four  lessons 
with  a  good  teacher,  so  that  a  man  of  ordinary  capacity  could  make 
good  way  for  himself.  This  is  by  no  means  a  new  theory;  it  is  the 
foundation  of  many  a  comedy  of  errors,  this  of  Love  with  a  Tutor. 
But  go  not  to  school  of  a  maid,  for  she  will  fool  you  to  the  top  of 
your  bent,  nor  to  a  married  woman  either,  but  to  a  man  like  my 
younger  brother  here,  no  Lothario,  but  one  who  can  keep  two  steps 
ahead  of  any  affair  he  enters. 

If  a  man  be  agile  and  daring,  with  sufficient  ardour  to  assume 

124 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


the  offensive,  having  an  audacious  tongue  and  a  wary 
eye  with  a  fine  sense  of  congruity  and  tact,  withal,  if 
he  can  make  love  with  a  laugh  and  a  rhyme,  as  Cyrano 
fought,  then  'tis  a  different  matter,  and  he  needs  no 
pilot  to  take  his  sweetheart  over  the  bar  and  into  the 
port.  He  must  be  bold,  but  not  too  bold,  carry  a  big  spread  of 
canvas,  luff,  reef  and  tack  her  with  no  shuffling,  cast  the  lead  on  the 
run,  keeping  in  soundings,  and  never  lose  headway  when  she  comes 
about  into  a  new  mood.  He  must  bear  a  sensitive  hand  at  the  tiller, 
keep  her  close  up  to  the  wind  with  no  tremble  in  the  leach  of  the 
sail,  and  gain  advantage  from  every  tide  and  cross-current.  Better 
dash  against  the  reef  than  run  high  and  dry  upon  the  shoal! 

It  is  a  pity,  is  it  not,  to  dissect  love  in  such  a  fashion  ?  I 
should  have  my  hero  quite  at  the  mercy  of  the  gale  of  passion,  and 
be  swept  forward,  he  knows  not  how  and  cares  not  where ;  he  should 
lose  his  wits  and  take  a  mad  delight  in  the  fury  of  the  storm,  seeing 
no  spot  upon  his  horizon.  And  yet  I  dare  not  be  warmer,  for  some- 
time I  may  decide  to  fall  in  love  myself,  and  I  would  not  have  my 
chances  wrecked  by  any  genuine  confession  of  faith,  set  in  type,  to 
which  She  might  refer,  with  a  beautiful  taunt.  No  !  it  is  better  to 
phrase  and  verbalize ;  the  subject  is  too  dear,  and  near  done  to  its 
death  already.  I  would  but  suggest  the  cross-references,  and,  under 
a  mien  of  the  most  atrocious  conceit,  throw  my  female  readers  off 
their  guard,  leaving  my  fellow  men  to  read  between  the  lines. 

For  I  hear  that  men  do  fall  in  love  with  women,  and  women  fall 
in  love  with  loving.  So  be  it.  I  have  known  girls,  too,  to  take  both 
vanilla  and  strawberry  in  their  soda-water,  which  proves  them  to  be 
not  altogether  simple  in  their  tastes.  The  best  of  them  will  talk  vol- 
ubly upon  love  in  the  abstract,  while  the  average  man  (to  which 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


category  I  hope  I  have  the  honour  of  not  belonging) 
Si  footing     keeps  his  mouth  closed  on  the  matter,  with  his  tongue 

in  his  cheek,  and  his  ideas,  if  he  have  any,  well  hidden 

behind  his  words. 

So,  if  I  avail  myself  of  the  feminine  franchise,  it 
must  be  done  cautiously,  for  many  are  the  difficulties  of  the  young 
man  who  would  love  a  girl  today,  and  only  a  precious  few  of  the  old 
school  of  beaux  would  understand  the  twentieth  century's  subtleties, 
even  if  all  could  be  explained.  Many  are  the  misfortunes  in  the 
Lover's  Litany,  from  which  the  modern  maiden  sighs,  "  Good  Lord, 
deliver  us ! "  A  man  must  take  her  in  earnest,  but  he  must  by  no 
means  take  himself  too  seriously;  it  is  proper  to  treat  your  passion 
cavalierly — indeed,  he  jests  at  scars  who  has  felt  the  most  amorous 
darts,  nowadays — but  he  must  never  make  himself  or  her  ridiculous. 
He  may  take  whimsical  amusement  in  his  own  conquest,  but  must  be- 
ware "the  little  broken  laugh  that  spoils  a  kiss."  And  above  all, 
mind  you  the  mise-en-scene, — the  stage  must  be  set  so  and  so;  the 
sun  must  not  see  what  the  moon  sees.  Sometimes  you  must  have 
your  heart  in  your  mouth,  and  sometimes  on  your  sleeve,  and  oftener 
she  must  have  it  herself.  'Tis  very  perplexing! 

The  best  a  man  can  do,  in  this  practical  age,  is  to  mean  business, 
while  he  is  about  it,  and  hold  over  as  much  for  the  next  day  as  will 
not  interfere  with  his  commerce  elsewhere.  The  woman  may  take  her 
romance  to  bed,  or  keep  it  warm  in  the  oven  against  his  return,  but  he 
must  be  out  and  down-town  to  earn  his  living  as  well  as  his  loving, 
amongst  dollars  and  pounds  and  cent  per  cent,  while  she  enjoys  the 
traffic  in  pure  abstractions.  And  both  must  hide  and  manage  as  if  it 
were  a  sin,  lest  Mrs.  Grundy  undo  them ;  they  must  snatch  their  kisses, 
as  it  were,  on  horseback.  Such  are  the  victims  of  supercivilization  ! 

126 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


There  was  a  time,  the  poets  tell,  when  it  was  not 
so  difficult,  and  a  man  might  wear  a  lady's  scarf  on  his  Si 
sleeve,  and  be  proud  of  the  badge.  It  takes  much 
more  complicated  machinery  than  that  simple  love  to 
make  the  world  go  round,  nowadays — perhaps  because 
it  goes  so  much  faster.  There  was  a  time  when  an  elopement  might 
be  picturesque  and  not  necessarily  followed  by  divorce ;  but  where 
now  shall  I  find  the  hard-hearted  parent  who  shall  justify  the  adven- 
ture ?  The  modern  mother  is  too  easy.  She  is  like  Mrs.  Brown  in 
the  Bab  Ballads — "  a  foolish,  weak  but  amiable  old  thing."  She  re- 
poses a  trust  in  her  daughter  that  does  more  credit  to  her  affection 
than  to  her  knowledge  of  human  nature. 

But  whoa  !  I  believe  I  have  forgotten  my  manners  !  I  have 
insulted  my  fellows,  guyed  the  girls,  and  here  I  am  on  the  high  road 
to  disqualifying  myself  with  the  more  respectable  generation.  So  I 
shall  cease,  but  I  will  not  apologize,  for  though  I  came  to  scoff,  I 
shall  not  remain  to  prey.  I  believe  I  am  not  more  than  half 
wrong  after  all.  There  is  love,  and  there  is  loving,  and  if  you  have 
followed  me,  you  know  which  is  which.  It  was  Rosalind  who  said, 
"Some  Cupid  kills  with  arrows,  some  with  traps!"  How  she 
would  smile  and  sneer  at  this  verbiage  !  She  knew  a  lover  from 

a  philanderer,  she   had    her  opinion    of  the   laggard  and 

the   butterfly    rover,  and   she  would    no  doubt 

say :    "  Cupid    hath    clapped    him    on 

the  shoulder,  but  I'll  warrant 

him  heart-whole!" 


127 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


is  BSoijemta? 


THE  name  "Bohemian  "  was  first  used  to  describe  the  gypsies 
of  that  nationality  who  appeared  in  France  in  the  thir- 
teenth century,  but  to  us  the  term  has  come  to  carry  with 
it  a  wider  significance  than  any  dependent  upon  that  little 
kingdom  in  the  north  of  Austria,  and  only  a  few  characteristic  traits 
of  those  wandering  vagabonds  survive  in  those  who  bear,  whether  in 
reproach  or  praise,  the  appellation  "  Bohemian." 

To  take  the  world  as  one  finds  it,  the  bad  with  the  good,  making 
the  best  of  the  present  moment  —  to  laugh  at  Fortune  alike  whether 
she  be  generous  or  unkind  —  to  spend  freely  when  one  has  money, 
and  to  hope  gaily  when  one  has  none  —  to  fleet  the  time  carelessly, 
living  for  love  and  art — this  is  the  temper  and  spirit  of  the  modern 
Bohemian  in  his  outward  and  visible  aspect.  It  is  a  light  and  graceful 
philosophy,  but  it  is  the  Gospel  of  the  Moment,  this  exoteric  phase 
of  the  Bohemian  religion ;  and  if,  in  some  noble  natures,  it  rises  to  a 
bold  simplicity  and  naturalness,  it  may  also  lend  its  butterfly  precepts 
to  some  very  pretty  vices  and  lovable  faults,  for  in  Bohemia  one  may 
find  almost  every  sin  save  that  of  Hypocrisy. 

Yet,  if  we  were  able  without  casuistry  to  divide  misdeeds  into 
two  categories,  those  subjective  and  objective  in  their  direct  effects  — 
separating  those  sins  which  hurt  only  the  sinner  from  those  which 
act  upon  his  fellows  —  the  Bohemian  would,  perhaps,  be  found  to 
have  fewer  than  most  of  this  harsher,  crueller  sort.  His  faults  are 
more  commonly  those  of  self-indulgence,  thoughtlessness,  vanity  and 

128 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


procrastination,  and  these  usually  go  hand-in-hand 
with  generosity,  love  and  charity;  for  it  is  not  enough 
to  be  one's  self  in  Bohemia,  one  must  allow  others  to 
be  themselves,  as  well. 

So  much  for  the  common  definition  of  this  much- 
used  name.  But  no  English  word  can  stand  for  long  in  its  primary 
meaning.  It  must  change  insensibly,  growing  from  day  to  day,  till 
it  embraces  the  spirit  as  well  as  the  letter  of  the  fact  it  expresses. 
The  word  "  gentleman  "  has  thus  grown  with  a  secondary,  spiritual 
significance ;  so  has  the  word  "  prayer "  by  the  interpretation  of  a 
more  liberal,  far-reaching  thought.  So  with  the  name  "  Bohemian  " — 
it  has  ranged  beyond  the  vagrom,  inconstant,  happy-go-lucky,  devil- 
may-care,  hand-to-mouth  follower  after  pleasure,  and  now  under  its 
banner  may  be  found  more  serious  enthusiasts  who  are  not  afraid 
to  offend  smug  respectability,  and  are  in  more  or  less  open  revolt 
against  convention,  bigotry  and  prejudice.  It  is  their  bond  that 
they  have  forsworn  allegiance  to  Mrs.  Grundy.  They  dare  be  them- 
selves without  pretentions,  they  make  and  keep  their  friends  without 
compromise. 

What,  then,  is  it  that  makes  this  mythical  empire  of  Bohemia 
unique,  and  what  is  the  charm  of  its  mental  fairyland  ?  It  is  this : 
there  are  no  roads  in  all  Bohemia !  One  must  choose  and  find  one's 
own  path,  be  one's  own  self,  live  one's  own  life.  Whether  one 
makes  for  the  larger  freedom  of  the  hills,  or  loses  one's  self  in  the 
sacred  stillness  of  the  forest,  the  way  is  open  to  endeavour  wherever 
one  wills.  Yet,  though  there  is  no  beaten  track,  there  are  still  signs 
in  the  wilderness  showing  where  master  minds  have  passed.  Here  is  a 
broken  jug  beneath  the  bough,  snowed  under  with  drifting  rose  petals, 
where  one  frail-souled  dreamer  loitered  on  the  way,  and,  with  his 

129 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


Beloved,  filled  the  cup  that  clears  Today  of  past  regrets 
and  future  fears,  singing  out  his  heart  in  lovely  plaint. 
*^     And  here,  along  a  higher  trail,  a  few  blazings  in  the 
TDOyftma.     forest  mark  where  another  great  Bohemian  in  this  life 
exempt  from  public    haunt    found  tongues    in  trees, 
books  in  the  running  brooks,  sermons  in  stones  and  good  in  every- 
thing. 

Within  Bohemia  are  many  lesser  states,  and  these  I  have  roughly 
charted  on  my  travels,  so  that,  though  I  may  have  left  some  pre- 
cincts unexplored,  I  know  at  least  that  these  territories  lying  on  my 
map  are  veritable  provinces  of  this  land  of  freedom  and  sincerity. 
On  the  shore  of  the  magic  Sea  of  Dreams,  beyond  whose  horizon 
dances  the  Adventurous  Main,  lies  the  Pays  de  la  Jeunesse,  the 
country  of  Youth  and  Romance,  a  joyous  plaisaunce  free  from  care 
or  caution,  whose  green,  wide  fields  lie  bathed  in  glamorous  sun- 
shine. To  the  eastward  lie  the  pleasant  groves  of  Arcady,  the 
dreamland,  home  of  love  and  poetry.  Here  in  this  Greek  paradise 
of  rustic  simplicity  and  joyous  innocence  and  hope,  has  lived  every 
poet  who  has  ever  sung  the  lyric  note,  and  here  have  visited,  for 
some  brief  space,  all  who  have  dreamed,  all  who  have  longed,  all  who 
have  loved.  Here  is  the  old  joy  of  life  made  manifest  and  abundant; 
here  Mother  Nature  speaks  most  clearly  to  her  children.  For  the 
most,  however,  it  is  but  a  holiday  country,  and  they  who  discover  it 
often  pass,  never  to  return,  forgetting  its  glories  and  its  mysteries  as 
they  forget  that  lost  country  of  their  youth,  counting  it  all  illusion. 
Yet  some  few  come  back  to  the  Port  of  Peace  to  lose  the  world  again, 
renewing  the  immemorial  enchantment. 

To  the  south,  over  the  long  procession  of  the  hills,  lies  Vaga- 
bondia,  home  of  the  gypsy  and  wanderer,  who  claims  a  wilder  freedom 

130 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


beneath  the  stars  —  outlawed  or  voluntary  exile  from 
all  restraint.  This  country  is  rocky  and  precipitate, 
full  of  dangers,  a  land  of  feverish  unrest. 

One  other  district  lies  hidden  and  remote,  locked  ^D&*mia? 
in  the  central  fastnesses  of  Bohemia.  Here  is  the  For- 
est of  Arden,  whose  greenwood  holds  a  noble  fellowship,  bound  in 
truth  and  human  simplicity.  It  is  a  little  golden  world  apart,  and 
though  it  is  the  most  secret,  it  is  the  most  accessible  of  refugees,  so 
that  there  are  never  too  many  there,  and  never  too  few.  Here  is 
spoken  a  universal  language,  Nature's  own  speech,  the  native  dialect 
of  the  heart.  Men  come  and  go  from  this  bright  country,  but  once 
having  been  free  of  the  wood,  you  are  of  the  Brotherhood  and  rec- 
ognize your  fellows  by  instinct,  and  know  them,  as  they  know  you, 
for  what  you  are. 

Now,  as  Bohemia,  unfortunately,  is  not  an  island,  it  has  its  neigh- 
bours and  its  frontiers.  To  the  west  lies  Philistia,  arid,  dry  and  flat, 
the  abode  of  shams,  dogmas  and  sluggish  creeds.  Here  stands  Vanitas, 
overlooking  a  great  desert,  walled  in  by  custom,  guarded  by  false 
pride.  It  is  but  a  step  over  the  border,  however,  from  Bohemia  the 
true  to  that  false  Debatable  Ground  whose  affectations  are  more  insin- 
cere even  than  the  shams  of  the  real  Philistia,  and  the  youngster, 
questing  the  hero-haunted  country  of  his  youth,  chasing  his  phan- 
toms, may  go  wide  of  his  reckoning,  misled  by  the  mockery  of  life 
made  by  these  disguised  Philistines.  In  the  City  of  Shams,  hypo- 
crites are  content  to  assume  the  virtues  they  have  not,  but  here  on 
the  borders  of  Bohemia  their  vices  are  all  pretense  as  well ! 

On  the  further  boundary  of  Bohemia,  also,  hangs  an  unsavoury 
neighbour.  Here  is  a  madder  and  more  terrible  domain,  the  land  of 
lust  and  cruelty,  lawless  and  loveless,  dwelling  in  endless  war.  To 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


te 


this  fierce  country  Vagabondia  lies  perilously  near,  and 
many  a  wanderer  has  crossed  the  frontier  to  find  him- 
self, before  he  knew,  within  that  evil  land,  where  free- 
dom has  become  licence,  and  tolerance  grown  into 
Anarchy. 

Wide  across  all  three  empires  stretch  the  Hills  of  Fame.  In 
Philistia  men  must  be  born  great;  there  is  no  other  distinction  pos- 
sible save  that  of  riches  or  inherited  power.  In  Bohemia  men  achieve 
greatness,  working  onward  and  upward,  bringing  their  own  great 
dreams  to  fulfillment ;  while  in  Licentia,  those  only  become  great  who 
have  an  infamous  notoriety  thrust  upon  them  by  their  own  high 
crimes. 

We  cannot  all  mount  those  heights  from  whose  crest  one  may 
look  over  the  Sea  of  Care,  past  the  Isle  of  Idleness  to  the  Adven- 
turous Main,  but  there  is  joy  enough  on  the  lowland.    Happy  indeed 
is  he  who,  in  his  journey  of  life,  has  escaped  the  perils  of  that  false 
Bohemia,  crouching  on  the  frontier,  and  has  found  his  way  to 
the  happy  forest,  met  his  own  people  and  drunk  of 
the  Fountain  of  Immortal  Youth;  for  there 
is  the  warm,  beating,  human  heart 
of  the  True  Bohemia ! 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


THERE  are  enough  who  think  "a  young  man  married  is 
a  young  man  marred "  to  cause  the  bachelor  to  hesitate 
before  renouncing  his  liberties,  and  to  fight  shy  of  entan- 
glement as  long  as  possible.  If  he  writes  down  the  "  pros  " 
and  "  cons,"  like  Robinson  Crusoe,  he  will  find  he  has  many  advan- 
tages in  his  single  state  that  must  inevitably  be  forfeited  when 
he  weds. 

It  is  not  only  that  "when  I  was  single  my  pockets  would  jingle, 
I  would  I  were  single  again " ;  it  is  not  so  much,  either,  that  his 
play-day  will  be  over  and  he  must  "  settle  down,"  stop  butterfly-lov- 
ering  to  and  fro,  and  gathering  the  roses  as  he  goes,  and  have  no 
haunting  white  face  sitting  up  for  him  at  home  to  ask  him  why,  and 
how,  and  where.  This  licence,  if  he  be  a  man  of  sentiment,  he  will- 
ingly foregoes  for  the  larger  possibilities  of  satisfactory  comradeship 
and  sympathy.  He  can  pay  double  rent  and  taxes,  too,  without 
grumbling;  take  manfully  the  shock  of  surprise  when  expenses  jump 
with  the  new  establishment ;  he  may  be  initiated  in  doctors'  fees,  and 
submit  debonairly  to  a  thousand  restrictions  of  time,  place  and  oppor- 
tunity. But  more  piquant  than  any  of  these  trials  is  the  discovery 
that  he  has  lost  his  old-time  place  and  privilege  of  welcome  as  a 
bachelor — that  "come  any  time"  hospitality  of  his  dearest  friends. 
He  is  saddled  with  a  secondary  consideration. 

Try  as  he  may,  no  young  man  can  marry  to  please  his  whole 
acquaintance.  The  world,  for  the  most  part,  still  looks  with  patron- 

133 


T  H  E      ROMANCE      OF 


izing  approval  upon  a  girl's  wedding  so  long  as  she 
chooses  or  is  chosen  by  a  man  not  hopelessly  impos- 
sible.  She  has  embraced  an  opportunity  and  usually 
ner  mother  cultivates  a  grateful  fondness  for  the  son- 
in-law.  If  he  has  a  scarcity  of  amiable  traits  she  will 
even  manufacture  them  for  him,  and  put  them  on  the  market  with 
display.  Not  so  the  mother  of  the  groom.  She  analyses  the  bride 
with  incisive  dissection,  and  it  is  hardly  possible  that  any  woman 
shall  be  found  quite  worthy  to  mate  with  her  son.  It  takes  a  woman 
to  read  women,  she  says,  and  the  little  wife  has  to  make  a  fight 
for  each  step  of  the  road  from  condescension  through  complaisance 
to  compliment. 

The  young  man's  friends,  too,  are  exigent,  and  he  soon  finds 
that,  though  the  two  have  been  made  one  in  the  sight  of  law  and 
clergy,  society  knows  no  such  miraculous  algebra.  You  may  squeeze 
in  an  extra  chair  at  the  dinner  table  for  a  desirable  and  "  interesting 
young  man,"  but  to  include  another  lady,  and  that  his  wife,  requires 
a  tiresome  rearrangement.  He  does  not  come  alone  ordinarily,  nor 
would  he  if  asked,  and  so  he  drops  out  of  his  little  world  and  must 
set  about  the  creation  of  a  new  one.  He  may  have  had  latch-key 
privileges  at  a  dozen  houses,  free  to  come  night  or  morning,  the 
recipient  of  many  sudden  invitations  for  theatre,  supper  or  coun- 
try—  but  that  is  all  over.  It  is  his  turn  to  do  the  inviting.  The 
table  has  been  well  turned  when  he  sits  down  to  meat ! 

Is  it  to  be  wondered  at,  then,  that  the  bachelor  is  selfish?  He 
escapes  lightly  the  lesson  of  compromise ;  his  whole  life  is  a  training 
in  egoism,  and  he  makes  the  most  of  his  desirability,  getting  usually 
far  more  than  he  gives.  He  is  free  to  experiment  in  acquaintance 
though  it  goes  no  farther  than  innocuous  flirtation.  He  may  make 

'34 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


friendships  for  himself  and  break  them  at  will,  lightly 

dodging  the  tie.     There  are  hundreds  in  every  city 

who  need  go   only  where   they  wish,  skipping   even 

"  duty   calls,"  sure    of  forgiveness.     He    may  know     <0U>fciantafft 

men  and  women  he  cares  for,  and,  through  the  lack  of 

experience  in  a  life-long  intimacy,  he  may  preserve  many  illusions 

as  to  women.     If  he  has  an  income,  or  a  profession  that  demands  no 

abode,  he  can  wander  "  to  and  fro  in  the  earth  and  walk  up  and  down 

in  it"  free  as  Satan.     He  travels  the  farthest  who  travels  alone. 

Still,  this  cannot  go  on  forever,  and  his  franchise  wanes.  With 
the  first  pang  of  middle  age  Nature  asserts  her  imperious  demand  for 
permanent  companionship.  The  "  cons  "  grow  heavier,  and  the  "  pros" 
more  attractive.  He  sees  maid  after  maid  of  his  younger  fancy  pass 
out  of  the  game  without  regret,  but  the  first  sight  of  the  new  genera- 
tion strikes  him  to  the  heart.  He  is  "uncled"  by  more  and  more 
adopted  nephews  and  nieces,  and  the  sight  of  their  fresh  eyes  awakens 
the  immemorial  longing  in  him.  And  then,  suddenly,  another 
"  pro "  comes  upon  the  list,  an  undeniable  item  of  importance, 
throwing  its  influence  so  heavily  upon  the  side  of  marriage  that  no 
number  of  his  foolish  little  "  cons  "  can  ever  balance  the  account. 
He  is  in  love,  and  there  is  but  one  definition  for  that  state.  It  is 
the  immediate,  ravenous,  compelling  desire  for  a  wife.  There  is 
nothing  for  it  but  to  renounce  allegiance  to  his  old  friends  and 
become  naturalized  into  a  new  citizenship. 

But  though  all  over  town  the  doors  to  which  he  cried 

"  open  sesame "  bang  sullenly  to  shut  him 

out,  he    does    not   notice   it    if 

that  one  portal  lets 

him  in! 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


Confessions  of  an  3fenoramus 


MUSICIANS  tell  me  that  I  am  exceptionally  fortunate. 
I  know  absolutely  nothing  of  music.     It  is  not  a  bald, 
fathomless  innocence,  however.     I  am  not  tone-deaf, 
for  instance,  and  certain  compositions  please  me ;  and, 
knowing  nothing,  I  have  been  treated  with  indulgent  complaisance 
by  the  profession,  and  amongst  them  I  have  the  unique  licence  of 
being  privileged  to  like  whatever  I  choose.     It  is  no  small  distinc- 
tion this,  nowadays,  when   one  is  nicely  and  strictly  rated    by  his 
compliance  to  the  regnant  mode,  but  I  have  to  fight  tooth  and  nail 
to  defend  my  innocence.     I  have  determined  that  whatever  happens, 
I  will  not  be  educated. 

For  a  while,  once  on  a  time,  I  hazarded  my  franchise  of  free 
speech  and  weakly  accepted  the  tutelage  of  a  master,  that  I  might  at 
least  gain  a  familiarity  with  the  catch-words  of  the  musical  fraternity. 
It  was  the  more  reprehensible  and  foolish  because  I  had  already  lost 
my  virginity  in  art  circles  by  the  same  servility.  Long  ago  I  learned 
to  phrase  and  gesticulate  at  the  picture  galleries,  and  try  as  I  may, 
I  cannot  forget  the  formulae.  I  learned  to  stand  with  eyes  half 
closed  before  a  painting,  and  waving  my  hand,  murmur,  "  I  like  this 
part,  in  here  ! "  I  caught  that  knowing  waggle  of  the  right  thumb, 
and  prated  of  "  modelling,  tricky  work,  atmosphere,  composition,  val- 
ues," and  such  humbuggery.  I  could  say,  straight-faced,  and  with  a 
vicious,  explosive  gesture,  "  Oh,  it's  good  in  colour,  but  it  just  lacks 
that,  you  know ! "  By  Jove !  I  was  in  it  up  to  the  ears  before  I 


136 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


knew  it,  and  now  my  critiques  are  retailed  to  the  semi- 
elect  as  coming  from  one  of  the  Cognoscenti.     I  have 
learned  the  terminology  of  the  craft  so  well  that  my 
very  instructors  have  forgotten  my  novitiate ;  but  an    jrrnotamtlg 
art  exhibition  is  a  horror  to  me,  for  I  go  bound  by  the 
tenure  of  hypocrisy  and  dare  not  walk  freely,  forced  to  rattle  my 
chains  as  I  limp  through   the  forbidden    pastures  of  delight — the 
candy  box  pictures  and  chromos  that  my  soul  loves  with  that  fierce 
first  love  that  never  dies. 

So  I  have  learned  to  avoid  the  Pierian  spring  now,  having  escaped 
the  seductions  of  Euterpe  by  the  merest  chance.  He  is  said  to  be  a 
fool  who  is  caught  twice  by  the  same  trick,  and  I  write  myself  down 
a  worse-witted  clown  yet  when  I  confess  how  far  on  the  high-road  to 
folly  I  was  before  I  jumped  the  fence  of  conventional  parlance  and 
broke  for  the  wide  fields  where  lies  my  freedom. 

I  had  been  led  astray  by  practicing  the  non-committal  remark, 
"Oh,  what  is  that?"  as  soon  as  the  piano  keys  cooled  off  from  the 
startling  massage  of  the  furious  performer.  I  was  bold.  I  even 
dared  to  be  the  first  to  speak,  and  I  threw  ambiguous  meanings  into 
that  well-known  exclamation,  for  I  was  assured  it  was  always  safe, 
whether  it  followed  a  Moskowski  mazurka  hot  from  the  blunt  fingers 
of  a  Kansas  City  poor  relation,  or  a  somnolent  Chopinian  prelude 
hypnotized  by  the  evening  star.  I  learned  that  the  statute  of 
Absorbed  Attention  had  expired,  and  that  the  lifted  eyebrow,  the 
semi-concealed  shrug,  the  overt  smile  behind  the  performer's  back, 
and  the  ex  post  facto  rescindment  of  all  these  in  one  mucilaginous 
compliment,  were  now  good  taste.  Bah !  I  sickened  of  it  all  soon 
enough,  for  I  had  been  piously  brought  up,  and  my  Puritan  blood 
was  anti-toxic  to  the  corruptions  of  the  musical  microbe. 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


And  so  I  have  forgotten  to  speak  of  Grieg  as  a 
«  mere  sentimentalist "  and  all  the  rest  of  the  Pharisee's 
phrase-book,  thank  God!  I  can  hear  the  "Mill  in 

Jrrn0ramU3  t^le  ^orest "  anc^  c^ec^  UP  *ts  verisimilitudes,  item  by 
item,  even  as  I  have  dared  to  renew  my  youth  with 
Charles  Dickens,  and  laugh,  cry,  and  grow  hot  and  cold  with  Scott's 
marionettes. 

Yet,  as  I  said,  my  innocence  is  not  altogether  empty.  There 
is,  indeed,  no  such  thing  in  life  as  absolute  darkness ;  one's  eyes 
revolt  and  hasten  to  fill  the  vacuum  by  floating  in  sparks,  dream- 
patterns,  figures  whimsical  and  figures  grotesque,  shifting,  clad  in 
complimentary  colors,  to  appease  the  indignant  cups  and  rods  of  the 
retina.  And  so  my  musical  ignorance  is  alive  with  a  fey  intelligence 
of  its  own.  I  have  come  at  last  to  an  original  conception  of  what  is 
good  and  what  is  bad  by  its  mere  psychological  effect,  as  illogical  as 
a  woman's  intuition,  yet  as  absolute  and  empirical  as  the  test  of  acid 
and  alkali  by  litmus. 

It  has  come  to  this,  that  I  know  now  I  shall  never  hear  good 
music  again.  When  I  was  young  the  phrase  "  classical  music  "  was 
still  extant  (I  come  of  the  middle  classes,  where  one  calls  a  spade  a 
spade),  and  that  variety  of  sound,  "  the  most  expensive  of  noises," 
was  as  incomprehensible  as  was  the  training  for  its  appreciation  ardu- 
ous ;  so  that  beauty  for  its  own  sake  was  unknown,  or  lurked  behind 
the  horizontal  mountains  of  Truth  that  shut  in  the  New  England 
landscape. 

But  as  my  knowledge  and  love  of  art  grew,  and  I  mingled  with 
those  that  spoke  this  foreign  tongue  of  beauty,  I  had  opportunity 
of  hearing  music,  the  only  music  that  was  worth  while  to  them,  the 
music  that  endures  and  lives,  continually  virile  and  creative.  Curi- 


138 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


ously  enough,  and  unhappily  for  me,  so  long  a  stranger 

to  such  influences,  I  found  that   some  compositions 

spelled  me  with  their  subtlety,  tranced  me  into  revery, 

while  others  awakened  active  feelings  of  amusement, 

surprise,  or  scientific  curiosity  as  to  their  construction  ; 

and  so,  ignorant  of  technique  and  composition,  harmony,  and  all  the 

rules  of  the  art,  I  have  gone  back  to  the  woman  in  me,  and  trust  to 

her  little  ounce  of  instinct. 

When  the  vibrant  chords,  the  sobbing  pulsations  and  the  mys- 
tical nuances  grow  faint  and  die  away  as  my  dream  mounts  on  the 
wings  of  an  invisible  melody,  leaving  the  sawing  bows,  the  brazen 
curly  horns,  the  discs,  cylinders,  strings,  keys,  triangles,  curves  and 
tubes,  with  which  paraphernalia  the  magicians  of  the  orchestra  have 
bewitched  me,  far,  far,  far  below  where  I  soar  aloft,  naked  and  alone 
in  the  secret  spaces  of  my  soul,  —  I  know  (not  then,  but  afterward) 
that  the  talisman  has  been  at  work,  and  as  the  rhythm  dies  and  I 
drop,  drop  to  the  world  again  and  turn  to  the  trembling,  wide- 

eyed  girl  at  my  left,  and  am  roused    by  the  brutal  ap- 

plause that  surges  around  me,  —  I   know  that 

this   was    music.      But    I    have    not 

heard  it.    Alas!    Shall  I 

never  hear  it  ? 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


ftecttal 


HID  secretly  in  my  heart,  I  long  had  a  passion  for  music- 
boxes.     While  I  was  innocent  of  the  ways  of  the  world, 
and  thought  that  Art,  as  some  think  that  Manners,  had 
a  ritual  to  which  one  must  conform  in  order  to  be  con- 
sidered a  gentleman,  I  hid  this  low-born  taste  from  my  friends  and 
talked    daintily  of  Brahms,  his    frozen    music,  of  the  architectural 
sonata,  and  other  things  I  did  not  understand.     How  musicians  and 
artists  must  have  laughed  at  me  when  they  saw  my  hands  —  square, 
constructive  palms,  wilful  thumbs  and  mechanical  fingers !     Music- 
box  hands !     But  though  I  had  long  ceased  cutting  stencils  of  other 
people's  thoughts  and  frescoing  my  own  vanity  therewith,  I  dared 
not  confess  to  John  this  wretchedly  vulgar  -penchant  for  the  music-box 
of  Commerce  —  the  small,  varnished,  brass  and  cedar  affair,  which  is 
the  only  instrument  I  can  play. 

But  at  ten  of  the  clock  one  night  the  yearning  became  so  intense 
in  me  that  I  burst  the  bonds  of  my  discretion,  and  lo !  at  the  first 
word  John  fell  heavily  into  my  arms.  He,  too,  cherished  this 
unhallowed  joy  in  secret,  and  had  long  hidden  this  tendresse  behind 
a  mask  of  propriety.  We  dried  our  eyes,  and  were  into  overcoats 
and  out  on  the  street  in  a  single  presto  measure,  set  to  a  swift  stac- 
cato march  for  the  Bowery.  We  must  have  a  music-box  apiece 
before  we  slept  —  we  swore  it  in  a  great  forte  oath!  Prestissimo! 
but  we  were  hungry  for  a  good  three-dollar  package  of  discord!  It 
was  none  of  these  modern  contrivances  with  perforated  discs  and 

140 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


interchangeable  tunes  we  were  after ;    not  the  penny- 

in-the-slot,  beer  saloon  air-shaker  nor  the  authropo- 

morphic   Pianola;    only  the  regulation  old-fashioned 

Swiss  instrument  would  serve,  the  music-box  of  our 

youth,  the  wonderful,  complicated  little  engine  with 

a  cylinder  bristling  with  pins  that  picked  forth  harmonies  from  the 

soul  of  a  steel  comb,  its  melody  limpid  with  treble  accompaniments 

lithely  sustained  at   the  small  end,  where  the  teeth  are  small  and 

active,  with  a  picture  of  children    skating  on  the   cover  top,  and 

beneath,  under   glass  —  oh!    rapture!  —  the  whirring  wheels   all  in 

sight,  tempting  the  small,  inquisitive  ringer  of  youth. 

After  an  incredible  amount  of  discussion  as  to  the  relative  merits 
of  the  repertoires,  we  came  to  a  decision  and  fled  home,  to  abandon 
ourselves  to  the  distractions  of  our  tiny  orchestras.  The  boxes  were 
so  full  of  music !  They  have  been  trying  to  empty  themselves  ever 
since,  but  the  magic  purse  seems  inexhaustible.  One  night,  in  my 
idyllic  youth,  a  German  band  played  all  night  long  under  my  window; 
but  now  I  could  carry  the  divine  gift  of  music  in  my  overcoat  pocket ! 
I  was  like  that  Persian  monarch  for  whom  was  made  the  first  pair  of 
shoes.  "  Your  Majesty,"  said  his  vizier,  "  now  at  last  for  you,  indeed, 
is  the  whole  world  covered  with  leather,  as  thou  hast  demanded !  " 
O  Allah  !  Now  for  me  was  the  whole  world  patrolled  with  German 
bands  !  They  played  "  Say  Au  Revoir,  but  not  Good-bye  "  under 
my  pillow ;  they  gave  me  "  Honey,  my  Honey  "  as  I  ate  my  breakfast. 

Before  the  week  was  up  we  had  learned  every  tune  by  heart, 
down  to  the  last  grace-note  in  the  accompaniment.  We  had  learned, 
too,  the  sequence  of  tunes,  inevitable,  unchanging  as  the  laws  of  the 
Medes  of  old.  Never  again  shall  I  be  able  to  hear  "Sweet  Marie" 
played  without  a  shock  that  it  is  not  followed  by  the  u  Isabella 

141 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


Waltz ! "  Never  again  shall  I  hear  the  end  of 
"Honey,  my  Honey"  without  a  tremble  of  nervous 
suspense  till  comes  the  little  click!  of  the  shooting 
cylinder,  the  apprehensive  pause,  and  then  —  hurrah ! 
the  first  gay  notes  of  "  Sweet  Marie !  " 

But  we  could  not  long  endure  the  perfect  simplicity  of 
the  airs,  and  the  old  touch  of  supercivilization  led  us  on  to 
attempt  to  vary  and  improve  the  performance  of  our  songs.  It 
was  John  who  discovered  the  virtue  of  a  few  pillows  stuffed  on 
top  of  the  machine,  and  he  achieved  immense  con  expressione 
effects  by  waving  the  box  wildly  in  the  air.  I  contented  myself 
with  changing  the  angle  of  the  fan-wheel  so  as  to  make  it  play 
allegro;  then  one  got  so  very  much  music  in  such  a  very  little 
while — surely  a  pardonable  gluttony!  Had  my  box  been  larger 
I  might  have  heard  seven  complete  operas  in  an  hour,  like  the 
old  Duke  in  "  Sylvie  and  Bruno !"  Yet,  after  all,  it  was  versatility 
of  quality,  rather  than  mere  quantity,  that  should  be  the  greatest 
victory,  and  we  set  out  on  experiments  in  timbre.  At  last  we  found, 
John  and  I,  that  by  inserting  a  little  paper  cylinder  under  the  glass, 
so  as  to  press  on  the  keys,  we  could  give  Sousa  the  grip,  as  one 
might  say,  and  he  would  cough  and  wheeze  in  a  way  to  amply  dis- 
credit the  statement  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  humour  in  music. 
A  greater  thickness  of  paper  gives  the  effect  of  a  duo  with  mandolin 
and  banjo,  and  this  was  by  far  the  most  successful  of  our  variations. 
I  should  end  as  I  began,  I  know,  by  a  bit  of  maudlin  philosophical 
moralysis.  I  might,  for  instance,  trace  the  resemblances  in  the 
musical  world  and  say  that  for  me  the  conductor  waving  his  baton  is 
as  one  who  winds  the  key  to  a  very  human  music-box,  in  which  each 
tooth  of  the  comb  is  a  living,  vibrant  human  being.  Or  I  might  broach 

142 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


a  flagon  of  morality,  forbye,  and  show  how  each  one  of 

us  plays  his  little  mental  tunes  in  a  set  routine,  wound 

up  by  the  Great   Musician;   what  devils  stick  their 

fingers  into  our  works,  and  bid  us  play  more  fast  or 

slow,  more  loud,  more  low;  what  jests  of  Fate,  who 

inserts  her  cacophonous  paper  cylinder  that  we  may  wheeze  through 

misfortunate  obbligatos  of  pain. 

But  no!  My  forelegs  are  stuck  in  the  bog  of  realism,  and 
I  shall  not  budge  from  the  literal  presentation,  for  my  little  king- 
dom of  delight  suffered  a  revolution!  It  was  John's  fault,  for 
John  had  been  affecting  a  musical  countess  who  gave  afternoon 
talks  on  the  "art  of  listening,"  in  a  studio — dry  molecular  analyses 
of  Kneisel  Quartets  and  such  like  verbiage.  So  he  came  home  late 
one  night,  while  a  music-box  was  bowling  away  merrily  upon  the 
couch  with  a  one-pillow  soft  pedal.  It  was  my  music-box,  too ! 

"  Bah!"   he  swore,  "your  box  phrases  so  abominably.     It  is  so 
cold,  so    restrained,  so    colourless!     Hear   mine,  now — isn't   that 
an  excellent  pianissimo  ?    There's  polished  technique  !    There's  chiaro 
scuro  !     Oh,  listen  to  that  f  Cat  Came  Back ! '     My  machine  is  an 
artist ;  yours  is  a  mere   virtuoso.     Mine  is  a  Joachim,  a  d' Albert ; 
yours  is  a  Musin,  a  de  Kontski.     Get  onto  the  smooth,  suave  legato 
of  this  wonderful  box !     Hear  its  virile  octaves !     Hark  to  those 
scales,  like  strings  of  white-hot  pearls  dropping  upon  velvet !  "     He 
was  moaning  and  tossing  as  he  snored  these  parodies.     It  was  a  night- 
mare, both  for  him  and  for  me.     At  four  o'clock,  in  the 
first  pink  grey  of  the  morning,  I  could  endure 
it  no  longer.     I  arose  haggardly  and 
threw  the  two  music-boxes 
into    the  fire! 

'43 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


for  fyt  -precious 


NOW  if  a  youth  as  mad-headed  as  I,  without  bookishness 
or  literary  education  of  any  sort,  with  neither  much  of 
anything  to  say,  nor  much  desire  to  say  anything  —  if 
such  a  charlatan  would  have  his  wares  bought  and  his 
words  read,  he  must  be  antic  beyond  his  contemporains  (a  shorter 
word  than  the  English  equivalent,  whereby  I  go  forward  one  step  in 
brevity  and  back  two  in  translation).     He  must  pique  curiosity  and 
tempt  the  reader  on ;  he  must  pay  a  contango,  which  is,  by  the  same 
token,  a  premium  paid  for  the  privilege  of  deferring  interest.     He 
must,  in  short,  be  "  precious,"  a  quality  essentially  self-conscious. 
This  has  been  at  times  a  popular  pose  in  Letters,  and  when  success- 
ful it  is  a  sufficiently  amusing  one,  as    poses  go ;  but  I  name  no 
names  for  the  sake  of  the  others  who  fall  between  the  stools  of  pur- 
pose and  pretence  —  who  tie,  as  one  might  say,  two  one-legged  beg- 
gars together  and  think  they  have  made  a  whole  man. 

If  I  have  lured  you  so  far  into  the  web  of  my  vagary,  pray  come 
into  my  parlour,  too,  and  be  hung  for  the  whole  sheep  that  you  are, 
that  I  may  fleece  you  close  with  my  sophistries  before  you  go.  I 
have  but  one  toy  here  to  amuse  you.  I  juggle  idioms  and  balance 
phrases  upon  my  pen,  and  whether  you  laugh  at  me  or  with  me,  I 
care  not,  moi.  But  as  seriously  as  is  possible  (seriousness  is  not  my 
present  pose,  I  assure  you),  I  would  I  might  wheedle  some  of  your 
dogged,  clogged,  rugged,  ragged,  fagged,  foggy  wits  out  of  you,  and 
constrain  you  to  accept  my  pinchbeck  for  true  plate  the  while ;  for  I 

144 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


have  a  little  sense  in  my  alloy,  after  all,  and  you  might 

go  further  and  fare  the  worse  than  by  my  chatter.     If 

I  dared  I  would  jump  boldly  into  my  thesis,  without       for 

apologies  ;  but  it  so  happens  that  it  is  one  that  should 

be  itself  its  own  illustration.     I  should  convince  you 

of  its  truth  by  its  own  garment  of  expression,  instead  of  depending 

upon  my  logical  introductory  presentation.     But  this  I  fear  to  try. 

My  pistols,  I  fear,  are,  as   the  Duchess  of  Malfi  might  say,  loaded 

with  nothing  but  perfumes  and  kissing-comfits. 

Now  that  you  are  well  a-muddled,  and  like  to  turn  to  a  saner 
page,  let  me  button-hole  you  with  one  clean  statement  while  you 
stand,  gasping.  Indeed  I  fear  that  a  dozen  have  fled  already  from 
my  gibbering,  and  I  speak  to  but  one  sullen  survivor,  determined  to 
collect  his  promised  interest.  We  know,  then,  the  joy  of  colour,  taste, 
sound  and  odour  as  mere  sensual  gratifications,  undiluted  with  sig- 
nificance. But,  since  I  seldom  read,  I  have  never  seen  the  apology 
for  the  sensual  pleasures  of  diction,  pure  and  simple  in  its  essence. 
Swinburne,  I  hear,  has  his  lilts  and  harmonies  in  poesy,  and  perhaps 
that  is  the  nearest  like,  except  for  the  Purpose  that  drives  his  chariot ; 
but  I  am  for  that  runaway  mood  that  gallops  gayly  forth  into  No- 
where, unguided  and  unrestrained.  A  twenty  bookmen  shall  come 
up  to  me,  no  doubt,  with  their  index  fingers  set  upon  examples,  but 
I  am  happier  in  my  ignorance,  and  I  prefer  to  think  it  has  not  yet 
been  done — or,  at  least,  not  exactly  as  I  mean.  Indeed,  you  may 
depend  upon  me  to  evade  proof  with  some  quibble. 

Your  didactic  prose  is  a  wain,  pulled  over  the  hard  city  street. 
Fiction  is  the  jaunting-car  that  paddles  down  the  by-side  lane. 
Poetry  wallops  you  along  the  bridle  path  with  your  mistress  Muse 
on  a  pillion,  and,  but  very  rarely,  dares  across  country,  over  a  low 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


hedge  or  two  (but  always  after  some  fleeting  hare  of 
Si  $Ua  thought);  but  I  —  I  am  for  the  reckless  run  over  the 
tot  tfit  moor  and  downs — the  riderless  random  enthusiasm  of 
nonsense!  So  out  of  my  way,  gentlemen  of  the  red 
coats,  or  I  bowl  you  down!  Mazeppa  might  do  for 
a  figure,  but  his  steed  was  hampered  with  the  load;  his  runaway  had 
too  savage  an  import,  and  it  is  my  purpose  to  be  only  a  little  mad. 
Pegasus  is  a  forbidden  metaphor  nowadays.  He  is  hackneyed  by 
the  livery  of  vulgar  stables.  I  prefer  that  Black  Horse,  vanned  and 
terrible,  who  flicked  out  the  eyes  of  the  Second  Calender,  as  my 
mount  is  like  to  serve  me ! 

In  the  Sonata  is  an  exemplification  of  my  theory.  There,  now, 
is  a  vehicle  that  carries  no  passengers,  save  what  one's  fancy  lades  it 
with — it  charges  and  soars  with  no  visible  rein  to  guide  it,  except 
when  a  thread  of  melody  steers  it  into  some  little  course  of  delight. 
So  there  is  a  secret  rhythm  in  the  best  prose  that  is  more  subtile  than 
the  metres  of  verse,  and  which  is  to  the  essay  what  the  expression  of 
the  face  is  to  the  talker.  One  may,  indeed,  use  that  same  word, 
expression  or  gesture,  instead  of  the  common  term,  style.  But  a 
common  or  house  observation  shows  us  that  there  is  some  pleasure 
in  the  face  whose  lips  are  dumb,  and  I  dare  say  there  is  joy  for  the 
coxcomb  and  female  fop  in  the  unworn  gown,  as  it  hangs  on  its 
lonely  nail,  or  is  draped  on  the  lay  figure  of  meaningless,  meaning- 
ful form.  So  it  is  to  such  hair-brains  and  cockatoos  I  appeal.  Come 
to  my  Masquerade  and  let  us  for  a  wild  half-hour  wear  the  spangles 
and  tights  of  palestric  impropriety,  hid  by  a  visor  that  shall  not  be- 
tray our  thought.  In  this  lesser  pantomime  one  may  be  irrelevant, 
inconsequent  and  immature,  and  sport  the  flower  of  thought  that 
has  not  yet  fruited  into  purpose. 

146 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


Can  you  find  your  way  through  this  frivolity, 
mixed  metaphor  and  tricksy  phrase,  and  see  what  a 
wanton  a  paragraph  may  become  when  one  sends  it 
forth,  free  from  the  conventional  moralities  of  licenced 
Literature  ?  I  have  been  to  many  such  debauch,  and 
have  got  so  drunk  on  adjectives  that  I  thought  all  my  thoughts 
double.  In  this  Harlequinade,  too,  there  are  more  games  than  my 
promised  Sonata.  I  will  mock  you  the  "  Mill  in  the  Forest,"  or  any 
other  descriptive  piece,  with  coloured  words,  parodying  your  orches- 
tra with  graphic  nonsense.  I  will  paint  the  charms  of  the  dance  in 
seductive  syllables ;  or  no !  better — the  long  forthright  swing  of  the 
skater,  this  way,  that  way,  fast  and  faster,  the  Ice  King's  master,  the 
nibble  of  the  cold,  the  brush  of  the  rasping  breeze,  the  little  rascally 
hubbies  where  the  wind  has  pimpled  the  surface,  and  the  dark,  blue- 
black  slippery  glare  beyond,  where — damn  it!  I  shock  you  with  a 
raucous  expletive,  and  you  plunk  into  a  dash  of  ice-cold  remon- 
strance up  to  your  ears,  and  flounder,  cold  and  dripping,  tooth-loose, 
and  grey  with  fright ! 

So,  at  the  expense  of  good  taste  and  to  the  grief  of  the  judi- 
cious, I  force  my  point  upon  you.  En  garde,  messieurs,  and  answer 
me !  I  find  few  enough  who  can  play  the  game  with  me  or  for  me. 
The  age  of  Chivalry  is  gone,  in  horsemanship  as  well  as  in  feats  of 
arms  and  sword-play.  Who  knows  the  demi-volt,  the  caracole,  the 
curvet,  the  capriole  or  the  rest  of  the  Seven  Movements  ?  Who  is 
elegant  in  the  High  Manege  or  Raised  Airs  ?  Who  prances  for 
the  sheer  delight  of  gallant  rhetoric,  on  Litotes,  Asteism  or  Onomat- 
opceia?  Fain  would  I  be  bedevilled,  but  the  Magi  are  passed  away. 
I  must  fall  back  on  Dr.  Johnson's  pious  flim-flam,  but  the  humours 
of  his  verbiage  are  in  me,  not  in  him. 

147 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


tot  tfy 

Prt  CIOU0 


Yet  the  New  Century  Carnival  is  proclaimed  and, 
over  the  water,  there  are,  I  hear,  a  few  who  are  to 
revel  with  King  Rex  in  the  Empire  of  Unreason.    On 
this  side  the  nearest  we  have  got  to  it  is  a  little  ma- 
chine-made nonsense,  ground  out  for  the  supposititious 
amusement  of  babes.     But  what  I  mean  is  neither  second  childhood, 
nor  bombast,  nor   buffoonery,  nor   silliness,    nor   even   insanity  — 
though  that  is  nearest  the  mark  —  but  a  tipsy  Hell-raising  with  this 
wine  of  our  fine  old  English  speech.     It  has  been  too  long  corked 
up  and  cobwebbed  by  tradition,  sanctified  to  the  Elect,  and  discreetly 
dispensed   at  decorous   dinner  tables    by    respectable   authors,  and 
ladies-  with-three-names  who  also  write.     It  has  been  too  long  sipped 
and  tasted  mincingly  out  of  the  cut-glass  goblets  of  the  literary  table. 
Gentlemen-inebriates  all,  I  wave  you  the  red  flag!     A   torch 
this  way  !     What  ho  !  Roysterers  !     Up  younglings,  quodlings,  dab- 
chicks,  devil-may-cares  and   mad-mannered  blades!     To  the  devil 
with  the    tip-staves   and    tithing-men,  constables,  beadles,  vergers, 
deputy  sheriffs  and  long-lipped  parsons  !     A  raid  on  the  wine-cellar 
to  break  flagons  of  good  English,  and  drink,  drink,  drink,  till  your 
heads  spin  !     There  is  still  joy  and   intoxication  in   the  jolly  old 
bottles  that  Shakespeare  and  his  giddy-phrased  Bucca- 
neering  crew  of  poets    filled  !     "  By  Gad- 
slid  !    I  scorn  it,  to  be  a  consort 
for  every  humdrum,  hang 
them,  scroyles  !  " 


148 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


PERHAPS  I  am  as  discreet,  honourable  and  loyal  as  the  ordinary 
man,  but  I  confess  that  at  times  I  have  a  frantic  desire  to 
escape  to  the  moon  and  tell  all  I  know,  or  to  unburden 
myself  of  the  weight  of  dynamic  confidences,  pouring  my 
revelations  into  the  ears  of  some  responsive  idiot.     In  the  old  days 
a  corpse  was  fastened  to  the  felon's  back  in  punishment  of  certain 
crimes,  and  to  me  a  secret  seems  almost  as  deadly  a  load.     The 
temptation  to  vivify  the  tale  and  make  it  walk  abroad  on  its  own 
legs  is  hard  to  deny. 

There  are  secrets  so  dangerous  that  to  possess  them  is  foolhardy. 
It  is  like  storing  dynamite  in  one's  drawing-room;  an  explosion  is 
always  imminent,  and  publication  would  mean  disaster.  I  have 
known  secrets  myself,  so  outrageous,  so  bulging  with  scandal,  that, 
had  I  not  promptly  forgotten  them,  they  would  have  undone  society 
twenty  times  over !  There  is  a  titilating  pleasure  in  the  keeping  of 
such  terrific  truths  and  it  increases  one's  inward  pride  to  think  that 
one  knows  of  another  what,  if  told,  would  change  the  aspect  of  a  life. 
The  temptation  to  tell  is  like  being  in  church  and  suddenly  seized 
with  an  almost  irresistible  impulse  to  shriek  aloud,  or  like  standing 
at  the  verge  of  a  cliff  and  being  impelled  to  throw  one's  self  over.  To 
give  way  to  the  perfidious  thought  means  moral  death,  and  when  one 
falls,  one  brings  others  down  as  well. 

Many  of  us,  though  we  conceit  ourselves  to  be  worthy  of  trust, 
are,  as  regards  our  secrets,  in  a  state  of  unstable  equilibrium.  Women, 

149 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


seeing  and  feeling  things  more  personally  and  subject- 
ively than  men,  are  especially  hazardously  poised.  So 
long  as  the  friendship  with  the  confidant  is  preserved,  the 


secret  is  safe,  but  let  estrangement  come,  and  suddenly 
the  balance  becomes  top-heavy;  one's  morality  falls 
and  the  secret  escapes  in  the  crash  of  anger.  I  have  known  women 
who  felt  themselves  quite  free  to  tell  secrets  when  the  proper  owner 
of  them  proved  guilty  of  unfaithfulness.  The  difference  in  view- 
point of  the  sexes  seems  to  be  this:  men  have  a  definite  code  of 
honour,  certain  well-recognized  laws  of  conduct  acknowledged  even 
by  those  who  do  not  always  obey  them.  "  The  brand  of  the  dog  is 
upon  him  by  whom  is  a  secret  revealed."  If  a  woman  is  honourable 
(in  the  man's  sense  of  the  term),  it  is  a  test  of  her  individual  char- 
acter, and  not  of  conformity  to  any  feminine  ethical  system. 

Most  men,  for  instance,  and  some  women  (especially  when  in- 
fluenced by  love  or  great  friendship),  will  keep  a  confidence  not  only 
passively,  but  actively.  As  Kipling's  Hafiz  teaches  :  — 

"If  there  be  trouble  to  Herward,  and  a  lie  of  the  blackest  can  clear, 
Lie,  while  thy  lips  can  move,  or  a  man  is  alive  to  hear!  " 

It  seems  right,  too,  that  in  lesser  cases  one  is  justified  in  lying  to 
protect  one's  own  secret,  as  in  disavowing  the  authorship  of  an  anony- 
mous book  ;  for  one  surely  need  not  be  at  the  mercy  of  every  ques- 
tioner. The  true  confidant  is  not  a  mere  negative  receptacle  for 
your  story,  but  a  positive  ally. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  those  who  hold  that  a  singular  and 
prime  friendship  dissolves  all  other  obligations  whatsoever,  and  that 
secrets  betrayed  are  the  greatest  sacrifices  possible  upon  the  altar  of 
love.  Montaigne  says,  "  The  secret  I  have  sworn  not  to  reveal  to  any 
other  I  may,  without  perjury,  communicate  to  him  who  is  not 

*'&* 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


another,  but  myself."  There  are  few  friendships  nowa- 
days so  close  as  his  with  Estienne  de  la  Boetie  (who, 
himself,  "would  not  so  much  as  lie  in  jest");  theirs 
was  one  of  the  great  friendships  of  history ;  but  there 
is  much  casuistry  used  by  those  who  would  manifest 
their  importance  in  knowing  mysterious  things.  They  obey  the 
letter  of  the  law  and  tell  without  really  telling,  letting  the  truth  leak 
out  in  wise  hints  and  suggestions,  or  they  tell  part  of  a  tale  and  hood- 
wink themselves  into  thinking  that  they  have  violated  no  confidence. 
Yet  nothing  is  so  dangerous  as  half  a  truth.  It  is  like  pulling  one 
end  of  a  bow-knot.  Sooner  or  later  it  is  inevitable  that  the  hearer 
will  come  across  the  other  side,  and  the  cat  will  be  out  of  the  bag. 

But  some  secrets  have  so  great  a  fiction  interest,  or  such  sensa- 
tional psychology  that  one  is  quite  unable  to  refrain  from  telling  the 
tale,  without  names,  or  localities,  perhaps,  merely  for  the  story's  sake. 
This  is,  perhaps,  permissible  when  one  really  tells  for  the  study  of 
human  nature  rather  than  as  gossip.  It  is  dangerous  always,  but  a 
clever  person  can  so  distort  certain  details  that  the  true  characters  can 
never  be  traced.  For  myself,  I  would  never  demand  absolute  confi- 
dence, for  I  would  never  tell  anything  to  anybody  whose  discretion  I 
could  not  absolutely  trust,  and  a  friend  can  as  often  aid  one  by  tell- 
ing at  the  proper  time  as  by  keeping  silent. 

Some  secrets  are  told  only  for  the  purpose  of  being  repeated. 
What  one  cannot  tell  one's  self  one  must  get  others  to  tell  for  one, 
and  this  trick  is  the  theme  of  many  a  farce.  Women  understand 
this  perfectly;  it  is  their  code,  and  men  laugh  at  it,  feeling  themselves 
superior.  The  three  quickest  ways  of  communication,  cynics  say,  are 
telephone,  telegraph,  and  tell-a-woman.  Women  are  notoriously 
fond  of  secrets  ;  it  is  their  only  chance  for  romance.  No  man  who 


THE      ROMANCE      OF 


desires  to  obtain  a  woman's  affection  should  for- 
get this.  Not  that  it  is  necessary  to  initiate  her  into 
your  affairs,  but  you  will,  as  soon  as  possible,  see  that 


something  happens  which  she  may  consider   it  wise 
not  to  tell.     Cement  her  interest  with  some  lively 
secret  that  ties  you  to  her  irrevocably,  so  that  she  cannot  come  across 
your  photograph  or  your  letter  without  a  knowing  smile. 

There  are  those,  too,  who  hold  that  their  own  idea  of  a  secret's 
importance  is  the  excuse  for  divulgence  or  defense,  but  a  man  of 
honour  will  keep  the  secret  of  a  child  as  closely  as  that  of  an  intimate 
friend.  The  ass  who  surrounds  his  every  narration  with  mystery  and 
takes  needless  precautions,  has  his  rights,  and  though  you  may  hear 
the  tale  at  the  next  corner  you  are  still  bound  to  silence.  Some  re- 
spect their  own  secrets  but  not  those  of  others  and  have  no  compunc- 
tions against  wheedling  out  a  confidence  from  a  weak  acquaintance, 
thereby  becoming  accessory  to  the  fact  of  his  faithlessness.  A  secret 
discovered  should  be  held  as  sacred  as  a  secret  confided. 

The  desire  to  tell  secrets  is  one   of  the  most  contagious  of  dis- 

eases, and  few  of  us  are  immune.     Some  vigorous  moral  constitu- 

tions never  succumb,  but  once  an  epidemic  begins,  it  is  hard  work 

stopping  it,  and  a  secret  on  the  rampage  is  well  nigh  irresistible. 

Tell  your  secret,  then,  broadcast,  and  let  it  have  its  way  until  it  dies 

out,  or  else  lock  it  in  your  own  heart.     But  above  all  confide  it  not 

to  her  who  asserts  that  she  never  has  the  slightest  desire  to 

tell,  for  there,  like  a  seed  sown  in  fertile  ground,  it 

will  germinate  and  flower  long  after  you  have 

forgotten  it,  aye,  and  bring  forth 

fruit   you    never  planted. 


THE      COMMONPLACE 


dffelett 


VIVETTE:  or,  The  Memoirs  of  the  Romance  Association.  With  a 
Map  of  Millamours,  by  the  Author.  152  pp.,  8vo.  Small,  Maynard 
&  Co.,  Boston.  $1.25. 

A  GAGE  OF  YOUTH:  Poems,  chiefly  from  the  "Lark,"  Set  Forms, 
Lyrics  and  Ballads.  58  pp.,  small  8vo.  Small,  Maynard  &  Co., 
Boston.  $1.00. 

THE  LIVELY  CITY  O'  LIGG :  A  Cycle  of  Modern  Fairy  Tales 
for  City  Children.  With  53  illustrations  (8  in  colour)  by  the  Author. 
210  pp.,  small  410.  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Co.,  New  York.  $1.50. 

GOOPS,  AND  HOW  TO  BE  THEM :  A  Manual  of  Manners  for 
Polite  Infants,  in  Rhyme.  With  90  illustrations  by  the  Author.  88 
pp.,  small  410.  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Co.,  New  York.  4th  edition. 

$1.50. 

THE  BURGESS  NONSENSE  BOOK :  Being  a  Complete  Collection 
of  the  Humorous  Masterpieces  of  Gelett  Burgess,  Esq.  With  196 
illustrations  by  the  Author.  239  pp.,  small  410,  heavy  paper. 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  Co.,  New  York.  $2.15. 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  THE  COMMONPLACE:  A  Collection  or 
Essays  upon  the  Romantic  View  of  Life.  With  decorations  by  the 
Author,  i  5  2  pp. ,  small  410.  Elder  &  Shepard,  San  Francisco.  $1.50. 


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